


Face the Music and Dance

by tumbleweed (zel), zel



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Caesar's Legion, F/M, Gen, NCR
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:22:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zel/pseuds/tumbleweed, https://archiveofourown.org/users/zel/pseuds/zel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after the Battle of the Dam, Hsu and Moore meet at a conference on the Strip. High-ranking NCR politicians and officials live it up in the Ultra-Luxe while regional forces contend for the future of New Vegas. Aware of a Legion plot, Ronald Curtis must keep Hsu alive..</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first Big Bang. Wow, what an experience. I want to give enormous thanks to pharma_dreams, who created a fabulous mix for this story. She's been a saint, and I'm grateful for her patience through the difficulty of getting this story where it needed to go. I love, love, love fanmixes and I was hoping that my artist would prefer to make those. Was I in for a treat. She's put together a pitch-perfect collection of songs and I hope you enjoy them as much as I do. I was going to put my comments at the end.. but I wanted to share her mix up front, so you can take a listen as you read. 
> 
> http://8tracks.com/sharpworld/face-the-music-and-dance

There was still a lull of quiet over McCarran in the dark of the morning, even with the movement of personnel from tent to tent, and the soft rumble of vehicles. Guards walked the perimeter and sentries manned the mounds of sandbags. Some gathered already for the mess tent to open.  
  
The sun wasn't up yet, but there was light from the fixtures of the airport that the engineers had managed to repair.  
  
Hsu was enjoying his run. Always did. It cleared his mind, kept him sane. He ran morning and night to avoid the full heat of the day.  
  
There were other runners. Some ran together and some ran alone. He found one young private with atrocious form, arms everywhere, as if he thought to flap his way across the line. At least he was out here trying. James fell in beside him with a “Hold your arms like this,” and they ran together a full minute before the boy realized who he was.  
  
Around the corner fence, he passed a pair who went at a steady slower pace. They were a gawky-looking kid he didn’t know and a solid woman that he did. Jane Betsy from First Recon. One of their best shots here since they lost Craig Boone, who had recently left service and married. Dhatri once boasted that Betsy could shoot a cigar out of a man’s mouth, and Hsu had clipped his cigar, saying he’d take the major’s word for it.  
  
The kid was maybe one of the younger First Recon recruits. Betsy kept him close in almost a protective way, correcting his form, urging him on.  
  
He couldn’t tell when Curtis joined him. For such a forceful presence, he could really sneak up on you. Many a time Hsu had shuffled through his papers, thinking himself working late alone, and then he'd hear Ron’s rough voice over his shoulder. Jesus Christ.  
  
James liked to take his subordinates running with him. You could really find the measure of a man. Not the only measure of a man.. but a good one. He had no use for weak lickspittle yes-men, and even with the situation as bleak as it was, you were still finding them here as you did in California.  
  
Curtis always had an intense expression when he ran. Sometimes it confused the younger men who would swerve out of his way or fall off to the side. Like he had a mission. Ron always latched onto something singlemindedly and wouldn't stop until it was completed. He'd do anything you asked him to.  
  
Now they ran neck to neck.  
  
James picked up the pace to see what Curtis would do. He prepared himself for a sprint as he came up on a lighting fixture. He would run hard this one to the next.  
  
Ron was hardly breaking a sweat, breathing flat, his legs like pistons. He wasn't built like some of the other fast runners, not tall or willowy with a long stride that ate up trail. He was built solid, muscular, strong…it's just that he wanted to win. It was all mental. Sheer will.  
  
He could outrun anyone here who didn't wear a ranger hat.  
  
James couldn't shake him no matter how hard he sprinted. He saw Ron at his shoulder and heard him huffing out shallow breath, but the captain wasn't giving up. Wouldn't run ahead either.  
  
Curtis would fight like a demon to leave anybody else in the dust, to cut them off, or make them sputter out. In the last competition he'd fought Gorobets neck and neck, ferocious as a wild animal, forced him off shaky and puking-- Corporal Betsy saying 'Don't worry LT, I'll hold your hair for ya.'  
  
He never did that to James. He never pushed ahead for long. Curtis just wasn't the type to one-up the colonel. In someone else, even something as small as that would have annoyed Hsu, but Ron just wasn't like some of those other fawning aides with their careers on their minds.  
  
Hsu couldn’t shake him no matter how hard he ran. They went neck and neck for some minutes, ebbing back into a run with brief spurts of sprinting. Hsu kept a steely cast to his face, but his lungs burned and his chest ached.  
  
The sound of a bugle ended their session. Hsu was glad for it, breathing hard, his lungs dying for air. He didn’t know if it was a real pain, but he felt his scar was hurting. He walked it off and Curtis walked with him, obedient but strong. The colonel gave him a thump on the back. Curtis reached to shake his hand.  
  
They drew up slow and then stopped as the day formally began in Camp McCarran.  
  
As the soldiers ran the bear flag up the flagpole, Hsu and Curtis saluted.  
;;;  
Curtis was already measuring out the grounds. Measuring and measuring again. You would see him locked into the activity with a deadly concern, like a chemist mixing some dangerous concoction. If it was too much he would shave off the top of the grounds and hold it level to his eye again.  
  
Then he would watch it percolate. Then he would pour it. And then he would watch Hsu take his first sip.  
  
“I almost think you’re going to poison me,” James remarked airily and when Curtis raised an eyebrow, he grinned. “It’s too early to be so serious. Please, come drink with me while I catch up.”  
  
Curtis did so. Even in an ordinary task, the man moved with a pent-up sense of tightly controlled power. “I sorted out your reports. And you’ve received some mail. The delegation.”  
  
Hsu was already picking through the papers arranged neatly on his desk. Curtis was extremely organized. “And they’re not coming out to tour the camp?”  
  
“I didn’t see any mention on their itinerary,” Curtis replied. His look was frank. “They won’t come here.”  
  
“You don’t think so?”  
  
“They won’t come here to look at broken planes and stand in shit. They want to watch naked women splash in fountains. They want to stuff their faces with veal.”  
  
Hsu lifted his eyes from the itinerary. “I had my doubts,” he said, “but I wanted to hear your thoughts. I appreciate your candor. As well as your sarcasm, if you keep it behind closed doors.”  
  
Curtis nodded. “This is a bad decision.”  
  
Hsu motioned for him to continue.  
  
“To have so many movers and shakers gathered in one place.. it’s unwise. Don’t you think it’s dangerous to gather together so many important people in one place?”  
  
“Major Dhatri voiced the same complaint. Of course, he is a sniper. Do you think they’ll be in danger out there?”  
  
“Who isn’t in danger, sir? This is the Mojave.” Curtis shrugged. “But you can’t help but notice that the only ones permitted weaponry are the robots and the members of the Three Houses.. who hate us.”  
  
“The thought has crossed my mind.. and I know that Colonel Moore had choice words on the subject. Myself, I don’t think that any of the Three Houses would take the opportunity to strike at our delegation. The gain would only be temporary. We would retaliate. They stand to gain more with our cooperation.”  
  
Curtis seemed unconvinced.  
  
“But I do agree the delegation is.. inappropriate. Premature. While I do think that we need more dialog between House, the Three, and the Republic, I don’t like the timing. I wouldn’t have chosen the week of the holiday. President Tandi was the founder of the NCR.. by all rights her birthday should be celebrated in Shady Sands.”  
  
“Instead of a celebration on the New Vegas Strip.” Curtis smirked. “To feast like conquerors.”  
  
“When most on the list didn’t even fight. I don’t think it was necessarily planned that way,” Hsu replied, “but it will look that way, of course. I think it’s premature. I hope I can turn their attention to what still needs doing. We still have a job to do.”  
  
“They won’t come out here,” Curtis repeated over his coffee.  
  
“No,” James replied. “That’s why I’m going out to them.”  
  
The captain’s coffee mug paused mid-air. “Sir?” he said.  
  
“The burden of command. And you’ll be coming with me.”  
  
“Sir... I’m not the kind to party on the Strip.”  
  
“I know, and that’s why I’m taking you.”  
  
“I’ll say rude things to those people.”  
  
“You most certainly will not. At least to their faces.”  
  
Curtis lowered his eyes. He knew he was edging the line. “Yes, sir. It’s not my place to argue with you and I apologize.”  
  
“No harm done, Ron, just remember yourself. Now, I wanted you with me for several reasons. One, I know you’ll have my back. Two, it’s good for you to see the political side to being an officer. For good or for ill. We need to frame the conflict for the politicians so that they know what’s it like out here in the Mojave, so we can get the things our troops need. So we can show them the importance of the mission. Lastly.. I think you deserve to enjoy yourself a little.”  
  
Curtis stared at him intently all the while, this serious man with his hard dark eyes. “But,” he said, “I am enjoying myself.”

  
;;;

  
“Bah, you should bring them down here, sir,” Dhatri said as they crossed round a technical. “Throw them in back, stick Betsy on the gun, and go ride around Fiend country.

That’s a real Mojave experience.”

  
The major’s eyes danced.

  
Hsu grinned as they inspected the truck, its improvised armored plating, its rear-mounted machine guns. “I’ll pass along the invite,” he said.  
“Oh I won’t hold my breath, sir. I don’t think they’ll take anything tougher than a hors d’oeuvre.”

  
“I’m trusting you to hold down the fort.”

  
“Is it too late to talk you out of it, sir?”

  
“Duty calls,” Hsu replied. Satisfied with the vehicle, he gave the tailgate a blow with his fist. The rear gunner saluted him; the driver drove.

  
As the vehicle pulled away, Dhatri grunted, “Tell me you’re not taking Curtis.”

  
“I’m taking Curtis. What was that, Major?”

  
Dhatri’s mustache accentuated his frown. “Nothing, sir.”

  
“Speak freely.”

  
“He’s a gloomy son of a bitch.”

  
“But he gets the job done.”

  
“Depends on what job it is. Chunking somebody in the head. Lifting somebody off the floor by their throat.. there he is, your go-to guy for scaring the shit out of people. Always fun for parties. Unless that’s your plan?”

  
Hsu smiled. “This will be good for Ron,” he said. “You just have to understand where he’s coming from. And I find it amusing that you complain about my scary son of bitch, when you pouted for days after Sergeant Boone left the service.”

 

  
Dhatri harrumphed. “Sergeant Boone was an asset to First Recon! An asset! Now he’s gone off with some woman!”

  
“That does happen, sometimes. Let’s be happy for him.”

  
Dhatri heaved a sigh with a “yes sir”; Hsu was watching smoke from the tailpipe of the departing truck. They were going to have to send away another fuel cell for repair.  
“Well then, Dhatri, I think we’re done here. I’ll be back in three days.”

  
“One thing, colonel.”

  
“Yes.”

  
“Being the old girl’s birthday and all, do you think.. “

  
Hsu matched his grin; it was hard not to smile when you saw the expression on that bearded face. “I think I can find it in myself to let you have a cigar from my stash, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  
“Thank you, sir. Have fun on the Strip. Don’t let Curtis drown anyone in a fountain.”  
  



	2. Chapter 2

A squad of rangers crossed the desert. The afternoon shadows fell long from their bodies. They encountered few humans in their travels; all it took was the sight of the long coats and gas masks for the ordinary folk to head on their way.

From the pitted masonry of a ruined residence came a feral ghoul, nude and crazed. The leader of the squad lifted his revolver, cracked a shot, and the rest followed him past the twitching corpse of their assailant.

They moved with purpose to the north with a red sun on their shoulder.

The power station lacked the security that it deserved. They were confronted by a frightened-looking sentry who crept out behind the sandbags, a boy of maybe seventeen.

“Halt!” he challenged.

The squad kept their weapons at the ready, but their leader stepped forward without a weapon in his hand.

“We came to rest here a few hours,” their leader called in voice muffled by his mask. “We’ll be on our way after dark.”

The boy looked unsure. “I’m supposed to ask you to remove your mask and give identification.”

The gas mask nodded. Lifting his hands to loosen the straps on his mask and pull it free, the ranger said, “Colonel Cassandra Moore, Commander at the Dam,” and she brushed back her damp red hair.

“Ma’am!”  
;;;  
“It’s good they’re checking masks now,” Guzman remarked as they went further into the cool darkness of Helios One. Their boots echoed in the metal corridors. “We could be anyone.”

Sandoza snorted. “Esa es la idea,” he shot back. Even after the day’s heat he was still primed, a sarcastic ball of energy, a young man personally picked from the ringside matches in the Boneyard to try out for the rangers. A lucky punch caused him to cut through his face with his own teeth, so he bore a distinctive scar on his corner lip that underscored his attitude.

Guzman, on the other hand, was a young man with an old man’s eyes. There was never a time he didn’t look tired. “Fuck you,” his dry voice croaked, “you weren’t there.”

“Yeah?” retorted Sandoza, “you know if I was there--”

“But you weren’t,” Moore called out. “So I don’t want to hear you two even start again. Rest up, hydrate, and get something to eat. We move in three hours.” 

Guzman had come to them from the Desert Rangers; he was among those who escaped Arizona after the Legion destroyed their final garrison in Yuma. There was always something of a rivalry with the eastern rifles, and while Moore thought competition healthy, she could only stand their squabbles in moderation. Hours in full sunlight and full kit were eroding her patience. Best to nip it in the bud.

Flaherty followed her through the corridors, silent and patient. It was on his advice that she even took Guzman and Sandoza. She would have picked just him, just the two of them, like the old days. ‘We would move faster with just two,’ she’d said.. and he shook his head, reminding her: not anymore.

No. Not with her knee like it was.

It was a relief to shrug off her pack and strip off her long coat. Flaherty knew better than to try helping her. He knew her well; they had fought side by side in the campaign against the Brotherhood, back in California as well as here in this very station. It was against a Star Paladin that Flaherty took his distinctive scarring, the melted textures of his face and scalp and hands. He had tried to shield himself from the beam of the weapon. 

Flaherty was almost forty, now, a dark man of mixed ancestry that might have been a mix of Asian as well as African. His family had been in Shady Sands since the original dwellers came blinking into the sunlight out of the vaults. He had two boys who still lived there, near grown men now, and he had been a sounding board for her own experiences with her son. 

She liked Flaherty. It was good to have him here.

“I’ll take watch, ma’am,” he said, and that’s how he was; even in a controlled station and even with a smattering of soldiers all around, he still knew to provide security. She was the colonel.

“No need, Flaherty.”

“Ma’am?”

It was tempting to think of rack time in an air conditioned facility, but she had a gnawing suspicion. “I wanted to check on something,” she said.

A light came into Flaherty’s eye. Always ready. “What is it,” he said.

She knew the Brotherhood of Steel must instantly spring to mind.

“Not an enemy,” she said, “but I think I saw someone standing out by the reflector controls. When we were coming in.”

Flaherty tipped his head.

“I thought I recognized him. I’m going up. Don’t wait on me.”

;;;  
Cassandra toiled up the catwalks. Her knee protested. Her shoulderblades itched. She had already drained most of her canteen. Yet she could not let this opportunity pass. Opportunity and suspicion.

When at last she reached the door that opened to the tower exterior, Cassandra made one last check. She touched the Ranger Sequoia, felt its weight. Then she went out.

Her eyes stung as they readjusted to the daylight. Afternoon, now, so the near-blindness faded. Cassandra walked out onto the platform and avoided looking directly beneath herself. For the first few moments she was aware of the tremendous height, but she steeled her nerves; it was like the Dam.. if it was going to break and fall, it would have done so already.

From this vantage point she could see almost all of the Mojave, the scrubs and washes to the south by the river. More growing things there, the dark shapes of the joshua trees and clusters of cacti. To the north, the Vegas Strip, and the distinctive casino tower of the Lucky 38. 

And there was also that giant dinosaur building.

Cassandra also looked above, shielding her eyes with a hand, in case she had missed anything airborne. He had two of them, the last she knew, but she did not see either. That did not mean they were not present somewhere.

He stood alone. It was, of course, him. His very distinctive silhouette. 

Moore approached. She saw no weapon on him, but then, he did not necessarily need one. He was a gaunt old man dressed plainly in the work clothes of a homesteader, neutral tones rubbed-in with desert dust. His right hand terminated in his famous hook, but before the prosthetic came his vault gauntlet. He was typing on it with his left hand as she joined him.

“What are you doing up here?” she asked, and he did not turn at the sound of her voice.

“Carrying out my evil plan,” the old man croaked. “And I would have gotten away with it, too.”

Cassandra snorted. “Joke like that a little more, and they’ll shoot you dead.”

“Ah, then I shall be free at last from their stupidity. Free at last.” 

“I’m surprised to see you still alive.”

He did not turn to face her. She saw only the back of his head, the thin silver bristle of his hair, and the black band of the eyepatch. “Bastards like me live forever.”

;;;;  
Picus knew that Hsu would not leave until he felt that everything was in order. Though the colonel demonstrated mercy and understanding with others, he was strict with himself, and his own work and preparations were painstaking and meticulous. Ron groaned silently when he had to stand and wait for the man to do what he felt needed doing. Papers, reports, lists. The man was obsessed with lists. 

He had the radio on as he worked, and he hummed along to it.

From time to time, Picus would put in, “Anything I can do, sir,” but it was of no use. The man was a perfectionist with his own material. Back in Arizona, you would never find an officer like that; something would be thrown across a table in a clatter; a harsh voice would yell ‘Take that out of sight’ or ‘when I come back that better be finished.’ 

Yet Picus had to draw on his patience and remind himself that it was good the colonel was this way. There was untold treasure in the man’s ledgers, reports, and lists, all of which provided information that the Legion needed. No one would think anything if Picus were to be found reading those documents. Not even Hsu, who appreciated his help in keeping his desk tidy.

He did not look forward to the gathering on the Strip, but he did not wish to drag it out. He was ready to go. He dreaded some unpleasant happening and it was best to confront it head-on. 

He dreaded some sort of stupid move from one of the Three Houses. Or Robert House himself. No one knew what the man really wanted. What if he should try to kill the entire delegation? 

What if someone saw past his disguise?

Silva had seen to that, though. She had walked him through it. His story was this: that as a vault-dweller taken by slavers, then freed, he had an enormous desire to serve the NCR even if his ways might seem strange at times. She had laughed and patted his cheek when she told him that: it’s all true, that’s the thing, Ron! Always lie with the truth. 

An idea came to Picus as he sat brooding with his suitcase, watching, chin on hand, as Hsu walked around his office reading papers. What if I get sick and have to spend more time in my room. Then I won’t have to mingle with those soft, weak people.

No, Picus thought morosely. Hsu will know I’m faking. It will make me look weak and womanish. Something that a woman would do.

Another idea! He wouldn’t have to pretend to be sick if he actually became sick. He could induce vomiting, just like they taught him.

“What are you smiling at, Ron?” Hsu favored him with a curious and gentle expression.

Shit.

“Nothing, sir.”

It probably looked suspicious. He could not let that stand. “I, uh. I’m hoping to see my friend. While I’m out on the Strip.”

“Ah. A lady friend?” 

“Yes.”

“What’s she like?”

Picus searched for a word to describe Martina Groesbeck. 

Useful?

“She’s very pretty,” he said. “Very easy to talk to.” That was true; Martina was attractive and that was part of the reason she was chosen. Men found her very desirable and they told her things after they had sex with her. Then she would tell these things to Picus, and it was good.

“Well, you don’t have to tell me about her if you don’t want to.” Hsu seemed to sense he had no more to say on the topic. “You know, I’d like you to have some time of your own when we’re out there. I think it would be good for you. Why don’t you take her out to dinner? Spend some time with her.”

“Thank you, sir,” Picus replied, “that would be perfect actually.”  
;;;;  
They left McCarran by cover of night. It had taken the colonel the better part of the day to finish up around the camp, but it was a sensible choice to go after dark. If someone wanted to remove him, that would be the time; he traveled with only the lightest entourage on the tram system.

Hsu had plucked off his rank and any other insignia that would call attention to his identity. Ron had done the same and gone in plainclothes. He looked like any other gambler of moderate means. 

“So,” the colonel invited, “what is your favorite thing on the Strip?” 

“I don’t know,” Picus replied. He did not anticipate a question like that and should not have answered so quickly. After a pause, he added, “The food.”

Hsu smiled a sudden smile, and Picus experienced an unusual wave of defensiveness. “There’s a number of good restaurants there,” he said, “but I think I prefer Rosa’s cookshop in Westside. Not really a shop, I suppose, more like a tent.. anyhow, she makes the best tamale pie I’ve had in years. She’s a character, though. Sometimes she just takes one look at you and tells you what you’re going to eat. Or if you try to order something and she doesn’t feel like it.. “ 

Hsu chuckled at some fond memory. It was a good thing he faced away, for the Legionary was disgusted at the idea of a woman who would deny a colonel what he wanted. He couldn’t believe Hsu at times.

Then Hsu said, “There’s supposed to be a fancy restaurant in the hotel we’re staying at. The fanciest. I don’t know that I’m impressed with the attitude, but it could be interesting to find what all the noise is about. Philippe’s-- he’s the head chef.”

Ron had no desire to eat any food prepared in the Ultra-Luxe. Yet from an analytical point of view, chances were low that they would ever serve strange meat to their guests; it was probably reserved for their own special rituals. They probably danced and capered around like the little freaks that they were. 

Gazing out the window of the tram, thinking morbid thoughts on just how the White Gloves would stand up to a motivated enemy, Picus found himself yet again engaged in conversation with James Hsu. He was unused to personal attention from a superior; mostly, he attempted to avoid their notice. Less beatings that way.

“Do you know any card games, Ron?” 

“No,” he replied. “Yes. We used to play cards when I was younger, but I don’t remember any of the rules.” 

“Not much of a gambler, either?”

“No. It’s wasteful.”

“But I suppose you like people-watching, though.”

Picus nodded, though he would not have used the word ‘like’. “It’s interesting to me,” he said, “how people go about their lives. What they’re doing. They just don’t know.” 

“What don’t they know?”

“How anything will go. What will happen tomorrow.”

“Do any of us?”

“I know one thing.. that chances are better that I’ll make more caps keeping them in my pocket than pulling on a lever or watching dice bounce.”

;;;

The Vegas Strip was in full bloom by night, a truly spectacular panorama. Though he was inured to the extravagance, Picus could see how the western men could be so taken in by all the explosive colors. They were easily led. He wondered how many of them had to suffer underground with dim lights, apportioned rations, and nowhere to go.

As the tram pulled into the station, Picus could hear the sounds of festivity going on all around them already. Tourists and gamblers and locals swarmed through the heart of the city, and some kind of street exhibition was already in progress. A mustached man walked on his hands. A tiny girl with blue hair breathed fire. A tame nightstalker sat up to beg for treats.

A scantily-clad woman called out to Hsu from a fountain. He smiled back. 

Ron shouldered through the crowd to clear the way to the Ultra-Luxe. He hated crowds of people, their pressing bodies, their idiotic way of milling around. Purposeless. And he didn’t like their smell.

One of them said something like, “Hey buddy, watch it,” but then he saw the look on Ron’s face and decided against it.

Picus had never been to the Ultra-Luxe prior to this gathering. He saw no reason to. The place was too expensive and the people were too cold. His behavior would stand out and he felt no overwhelming reason to play nice. And he knew from his brothers that the White Glove Society was more than they seemed. It was said that in the hidden recesses of the hotel, the Society still held old rites from the wild. There was talk as well that they might become an ally and a tool for Caesar, or another avenue from which to divide and conquer the families on the Strip.

Ron hated their oily voices, their cold precise little movements. They were like insect people, he thought. When they came to greet him at the desk, he wished he could bat them away.

“Gentlemen you have our apologies,” came the silken tenor of one of the White Glove valets, “but we will make our guarantees as comfortable as possible.” The man was tall and sleek, possibly of hispanic descent, with a superb mane of black hair. He had an air of smothering obeisance and servitude, yet with an undertone of being completely in love with himself.

Picus anticipated that they would be searched for weapons, so he adjusted accordingly. He had been taught full well how to hide them. 

But it seemed the search was only perfunctory, or that the valet did not know what he should be doing. Amateur. With the way that valet searched him, Picus could have strolled through the doors with the legendary Sword of the East tucked under his arm.

Though it looked pretentious and ill-designed to Curtis, he could see how visitors would be taken in by the grandeur of the casino. The dyes in the carpet were rich and uniform; the walls weren’t chipped or crumbling; everything looked lush and unreal in its gleaming perfection. You would have thought the apocalypse had not happened here at all, this weird beautiful dreamworld that the Ultra-Luxe sought to preserve. There were art-glass sculptures, indoor fountains, lush greenery, gorgeous women with half-masks and feathers who brought out bubbling drinks in fine glassware. Everything looked fresh and new, elaborate yet effortless, and the guests and gamblers each gave off the air of somehow being the most interesting person in the room.

Part of Ron yearned for the world that was shown in the propaganda of his youth, the lost age of luxury, comfort, and freedom that the great war took from them. Yet he knew now it was an only an illusion, only a last gasp of a failed civilization.

Their rooms were near to one another but not adjacent. Good. Picus would require space; the constant activity would drain his energy, and the everpresent need to pay attention would tax his patience. He wanted to stand under the hot stream of a showerhead and think of nothing.

First: dinner with Martina.


	3. Chapter 3

Picus preferred The Tops Casino.

Luxuriant and atmospheric without the air of pretention. Benny Gecko was a man who enjoyed the finer things in life, but beneath the checkered coat and suave smile there was raw power fused with cunning and vision. 

The clerk’s assistant made a better attempt at finding Ron’s concealed weaponry, but no luck for them. He was unconcerned. He had been here before.

He had given a kid a few caps to run down to Vault 21 with a message and a room number for Martina. It was better to take out a room to talk in private. They normally met in restaurants around Freeside where they wouldn’t be seen by the objects of their inquiries, but he did not want her to venture beyond the Strip after dark. There seemed to be agitation these days. Some talk of a shootout at one of the casinos where they used to take lunch.

Ron had dinner sent up, and he made himself comfortable at the table. This way they aroused no suspicion. Anyone would assume they were meeting here as a man and a woman, though in truth it was not that way between them.

Martina arrived later than he expected. She knocked four times, twice, with the space in between them. When he opened the door for her, she slipped in past him and walked out into the center of the room to twirl and show off her dress. She had a bottle of liquor in one hand. He was not good at telling the different types apart.

“What do you think?” she purred.

Shutting the door with his shoulder, locking it, Picus looked her over. “It’s very yellow,” he said.

“The color is called ginger dreams,” she said, “the dressmaker in Westside has a new girl who mixes the dyes.” 

This meant nothing to him. “Ah.”

Otherwise, Martina appeared as attractive as ever, with her fine cheekbones and healthy glowing brown skin. She stood there in her heels (also yellow as the dress) and seemed to preen for further compliments. His only real opinion was that she always spent far too much time forcing her hair into a way it didn’t want to go. 

He learned by now that he should probably not say that out loud. 

“You look nice,” he said.  
;;;;  
“Everyone’s talking about what happened at the Silver Rush,” Martina was saying as they ate. “It all started with some little tiff and then it blew wildly out of proportion. If you ask me, the Van Graffs were just looking for an excuse to take the casino.”

Picus nodded. The strong took from the weak. “Gloria Van Graff,” he said.

“Yeah, and that guy, Cutting. What a name. Jean-Baptiste Cutting. They broke out their energy weapons and took down everybody in the joint. Oh, Jesus. You know someone told me that there are still bodies in there, people half-melted into the walls and the furniture?”

“How is everyone else taking it in Freeside?”

“Oh, they’re taking it all right. You pretty much have to with the Van Graffs. Who’s going to stop them?” Martina shook her head. “I’m too scared to go back there right now. I’m so glad we met on the Strip.” Her hand darted across the table and touched his wrist. 

“The Kings? The other casinos?” 

“I heard Gloria had an audience with the King. Don’t know much else about what went on there. Don’t know what’s going on with the Kings these days. Something weird. Someone said they had a zombie!” 

“A what?”

Her head canted to the side (she was wearing very large earrings) and then a gentle smile crossed her face. “Oh, Ron, didn’t you have zombie movies in your Vault?”

“We only had holo reels about the war. What is a zombie?” 

“It’s like a dead body that comes back to life and starts to drag itself around, attacking people. They’re rotting and terrible. Try to eat people’s brains. You know, like a ghoul.”

“Ghouls are alive.” 

“If a ghoul was really dead, though. Just as gross, but like, sinister. Because we know how ghouls are made, but no one’s really sure why zombies come back to life. Evil magic, probably.”

Ron set down his fork and chewed slowly as he attempted to catch back up to the conversation. “The Kings have a ghoul?”

“No,” Martina replied, “they have a zombie. At least, that’s what people are saying. I haven’t seen it. Anyhow, something weird is going on with the Kings, and I don’t know what’s happening with the Van Graffs. The King better be careful, though. Gloria could push him out if she wanted to.”

“Does she want to?”

“I don’t know. Hell of a job to run Freeside, though. Probably keeps her from trying to take it outright. Then she’d be stuck with it and that’s not really her thing.” She dabbed at her lips with the cloth napkin. “Oh-- did you know the Garrets aren’t actually married? They’re brother and sister?” 

Her eyes were huge and she invoked this terrible knowledge in such a tone of voice that Ron felt he was missing something of grave importance; he didn’t know what she was talking about.

Ron squinted. “Who?”

“The owners of the Atomic Wrangler.”

“Oh. I’ve never been there, but I remember the colonel mentioned it once.” Ron nodded slowly as the memory came back to him. “He said it probably wasn’t my kind of place.”

Martina’s eyes danced now. “You never know,” she said.

“Have you heard anything about the other Families reacting to the NCR delegation staying at the Ultra Luxe?” 

“Oh, the Omertas are furious,” Martina replied with a lavish roll of her eyes. She had done something to her eyelashes to make them extremely black and fanlike. “A whole lot of morons. Feeling all left out. What, did they think the NCR delegation was really going to stay at Gomorrah for the holiday? Tuck a few NCR dollars in a stripper’s waistband?”

“Well. President Tandi’s face IS printed on some of the bills.”

Martina laughed. “Oh, Ron, you’re so funny sometimes, it just takes me by surprise. Can’t you just picture an old lady’s face on paper money in some girl’s panty?”

“I’d rather not,” Picus replied. This caused her to snort and laugh more, but he tried to bring the conversation back around. “I don’t think the Omertas should worry very much. They’ll still make money off the delegation. What do the Chairmen think of it all?”

“Oh, well, you know Benny Gecko. Playing it off like it was nothing. Truth be told.. “ Martina smiled. “I don’t think he’d want them all there in his casino. He’s too cool for that bunch of squares. There they are, partying like it’s their first time. He’ll make money off them too, but I think he likes to keep them at arm’s reach.” 

Picus nodded. He thought the same. 

“I just don’t know why the Omertas have to be so grumpy about the thing,” Martina went on. “It’s just not right for the official delegation to stay at a brothel, for goodness sakes. And I don’t blame them for not wanting to tuck in under Benny Gecko’s roof. He’s up to something.”

“And what do you think that is?”

“A man like Benny Gecko.. he doesn’t play second fiddle to anybody. You know? Especially since House must be so old. And so delusional, always going on about how great a savior he is, how everyone owes them their existence, so on and so forth.. you can tell the Chairmen are just waiting for their day.”

“You’re very sharp, Martina.” He meant it. She was very intelligent for a woman.

She seemed pleased at the compliment, but she shrugged it off. “I’m just a people person,” she said. “I get people. You get to know types. You just get this feeling, you know?” 

He nodded vaguely. He was finishing up his meal and wiping his mouth with his napkin.

There was a shift in Martina’s posture, the way she sat back in her seat. Her lips parted as though she were about to say something, and then she smiled almost shyly. “I’ve been going with a guy from the Omertas,” she said. “He talks to me a lot about these things.”

Ron nodded—of course. “What else has he told you?” 

She hesitated, and she touched her hair. Women touched their hair when they were nervous. “That.. that doesn’t bother you, to hear me talk about it?”

“No, it’s what I thought.” 

“It doesn’t bother you.. not a little?”

“Not at all.”

He watched her face expectantly, but she was looking away now, as though she needed a close inspection of the wallpaper pattern. “When you said.. it’s what you expected? What do you mean by that?” The big fanlike lashes blinked as she turned her eyes back to him. 

He was starting to think that she was becoming upset; who knew why, with them. “Some men tell women things,” he replied.

“And some men don’t.” She smiled sadly. “I think you’re using me, Ron.”

“You’re compensated. I don’t know why this would upset you, Martina.” She was usually so smart.

“Sometimes I get so frustrated with you,” she told him, “but I’ve had to sit back and look at it. Be the better person. I tell myself that you came from a Vault and maybe that’s why you are the way you are. I’ve even talked to Sarah about it.”

Sarah Weintraub, the owner of Vault 21 where Martina worked. What could they talk about? “Have you told her you give information to me?” The idea angered him.

“No, you idiot,” she said. “I told her I didn’t understand my boyfriend, that he was weird.” 

Ron shrugged; it was not his problem then, was it. “You said it yourself, the Omertas are all morons.” 

Then Martina laughed. She flat-out laughed. “Oh, Ron.”

It occurred to him then that she meant him. Of course, she would refer to him as her lover, in the same way that he let Hsu think he had a girlfriend on the Strip. “Ah.”

She reached across the table, and her hands took his hand. “I’m helping you because I believe in your mission,” she told him. “I’ve lived in Nevada all my life, and I think it will be better off if it joins the republic. Otherwise it’s all gangsters. Even Robert House, he’s no better. For all his talk of saving humanity, doing what’s best.. he’s all about himself. And he’s hiding something, like why don’t we ever see him?”

“There is some talk he may be a ghoul—“

Martina squeezed his hand. “Ron, I’m trying to tell you that I want to help you, but it’s hard for me when I don’t know what you’re thinking or feeling, for real. I think.. I think I’m starting to have feelings for you, but I have to know I’m appreciated.” 

He did not know what to say, and while he built his response, he looked into her face. She had gone to so much trouble to make herself beautiful for him this evening. She even brought that bottle of liquor, probably something expensive from Sarah Weintraub’s stash. 

“I do appreciate you,” he replied, “but I don’t think I can give you what you want.”

“Are you married?” she whispered. “I never asked, I guess I thought.. “

He shook his head.

“You do like girls, though? Don’t you?”

“Yes.” 

She let go of his hand. “Well, I won’t beg,” she said. “I just.. I feel dumb. I don’t know what I feel. I will say one thing, though. For such a smart man, you’re so stupid about some things, Ron Curtis. I don’t think I want to talk to you right now.” 

;;;

He had mated with two women in his lifetime, and both women enjoyed healthy pregnancies. The male infants were not found to have any obvious defect, or so his sister told him. He had done what was expected of him and he had accepted his reward.

The issue now with Picus was that he was unclear on how to go forward with Martina. Although women were well-suited for the work, their emotions could sabotage an otherwise useful arrangement. What if Martina became upset at his refusal and this Gomorrah idiot turned her allegiance? 

He became irritated at the thought. Well, for one, he would be able to discern if Martina were lying to him.

Picus searched his personal history for a solution. How had he dealt with awkward situations prior to this one? 

I could just kill her, he thought, as he stood in his shower.

But he couldn’t just kill Martina. Well, he could, it would be simple, but she was still useful.

Picus turned the faucet hotter. A good shower was one of his truly rare joys, but rather than soothing or mindlessly relaxing, he found himself more tense than before. 

He rubbed soap over his body, trying to avoid its natural response. Of course he could take Martina up on her offer. Women were always so quick to attach themselves to a man. He could cement her loyalty through affection-- he had heard that brother Purpureo was known as a charmer, though Picus had never met the man in person. Even Vulpes Inculta was said to have some kind of effect on women.

Yet the idea left his blood cold. He wasn’t a charmer, and he didn’t know what to do. What if Martina somehow gained the upper hand. What if his behavior was viewed then as some act of perversion or disloyalty? He knew his position was more precarious than those of other frumentarii. His life was already over.

;;;

It was an evening of music and grandeur, courtesy of the White Glove Society and some of the finest of New Vegas talent. Colored neon shone across a smart band of brass instruments and songs fell away to a ripple of applause from ladies and gentlemen. It was classy, beautiful, unique, hearkening back to the pleasures of a world that used to be and might again. 

The delectable meal arrived dish by dish in four courses, a rare menu of hot soups, seared fish, and select cuts of beef that still bled at the knife. There were fresh vegetables in creamy sauces, leafy salads, and sliced fruit arranged like birds. The dinner was a pageantry of colors and textures and tastes, and Hsu barely ate any of it.

None of his soldiers ate like this, so neither would he. Although his presence was required, he would do his best to preserve his attitude of dignity and humility. 

Truth be told, it wasn’t difficult; despite the tantalizing smell of sizzling steak, his stomach wasn’t used to such richness of diet. It didn’t help that the restaurant— kept small for an exclusive and intimate atmosphere—was now overcrowded and overwarm.

Seated at a table of honor, Hsu shared his meal with a set of New California up-and-coming, old blood, and well-to-do: Wendell Hubbock, the cattle baron whose father had been an illiterate ranch hand; Browning Senior, who owned an impressive vineyard in wine country; Oscar Page, a factory owner with designs on prospective glass production. 

Hubbock was a huge man in cowboy-gentleman attire, his dove gray suit finely tailored to his size. He wore a bolo tie, an enormous belt buckle, and he had the tiniest pointy little cowboy boots that Hsu had seen on a man. Hubbock had a habit of setting his arms on the table, which meant they almost ended up on his neighbors’ plates, and he laughed and talked in an expansive volume. Looking at him in the face, Hsu couldn’t help but smile; the man’s wild moustache and twinkling eyes only emphasized his good humor.

Hubbock’s wife was just as large and twice as loud, a wonderful woman by the name of Nicole Louise, but she went by Nicky. “You call me Nicky, Colonel Jim,” she said first thing in the evening, and she gave him a nudge that nearly knocked him off balance. She was full of ideas on land deals, calf rearing, military rations, and alfalfa crop. She had also been drinking steadily.

Oscar Page was a slight man in a green suit whose tufts of hair looked like weeds coming out of a sand dune. For the first two courses, he was easily overpowered in conversation by Hubbock and Browning, but he caught a second wind and launched into an exhaustive soliloquy on the merits of a glass factory.

Browning Senior went by the name of Hector, a shrewd man in his later fifties or early sixties. His shoes were deathclaw leather, his suit black and perfect, and for the price of the cufflinks he wore, Hsu could have sent his eldest daughter to university in a few years’ time. Browning had the look of a man who enjoyed easy living, the finer things in life, and though there was a softness to his body, a roundness of jowl, a slow and cane-aided walk, his eyes were lifeless and hard. Calculating. Hsu thought of the old saying: a man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.

Unlike the others, the movers-and-shakers, the entrepreneurs, the frontiersmen, the benefactors and patrons, unlike the Hubbocks with their grand designs on cowflesh or Oscar Page and factory output, Browning needed nothing here, wanted nothing. There was an air of aggressive boredom about the man, a defensive hostility, as though he felt he vehemently deserved to be here and it didn’t live up to his expectations.

Browning had his steak sent back twice. As he sawed his knife through the bloody third steak, he mentioned to Hsu he had a son in the military, a captain. 

“That name-- now that you mention it, that’s familiar to me,” Hsu said. He had crossed his silverware on his plate at this point, let it alone. 

Browning didn’t appear to like the remark, and he furrowed his brow. “Is it,” he said. “Why is that.”

“I remember seeing it in a Hub garrison roster,” Hsu replied; yes, that was it, and he made himself smile. Browning probably bought the young man his commission, one of those well-off grumps who thought their sons deserved it.

“Poor young thing, he’s gone and missed his chance to meet the legendary Colonel Hsu.” Miss Nicky gave a hearty laugh. “I bet the good captain’s busy holding down the fort at Gomorrah, didn’t we see him headed that way? That tall feller hurryin’ doubletime?”

Wendell Hubbock was the only one unsurprised by his wife’s sense of humor. “What a thankless task, holdin’ back those hordes.. wave after wave of them.”

Browning frowned.

“Y’all see that one with the blue hair,” Nicky went on, glorious and drunk,” she sure was cute as a button.” 

Oscar Page at this point began to nervously explain the role of quartz sand in glass production, Nicky Hubbock began to tell a bawdy story, and Hsu was approached by a deeply contrite White Glove servant who implored him to tell whatever was wrong with his meal, why was he not eating? 

As the meal came to a close, Hsu declined coffee and a cigar due to the tremendous heat of the room. Instead he came away with a glass of wine, regretting it almost immediately. He had never liked the taste, preferring cheap potato liquor they used to swill back in the camp days, and at any rate he had a pain in his stomach. 

When he said his goodbyes, his let’s-talk-laters, his shakings of hands, and an unavoidable bear hug from Hubbock’s intoxicated wife, Hsu left the meal with a mixed sense of accomplishment. One down, two to go, and anyhow, he would have to put the cattle baron in contact with Captain Knight to strike a deal on meat rations. 

Later, playing at cards in his room, Richards asked him, “So, how was Philippe’s, was it all you hoped and dreamed?” 

“There was too much food.”

“Did you eat any of it?”

“A little.”

“I know you, you eat like a damn bird. I bet you offended the hell out of the White Glove Society.”

“They started to hover over me at the end. The one acted like it was his personal failure that I didn’t have much of an appetite.” 

“He’s probably hanged himself with his tie. You’re a monster, Jim.”

Hsu smirked. “Actually, I don’t know if it’s the richness of the food, or how hot it is in here, but I’m just feeling off.”

“Oh, that’s probably the poison,” Rich said. 

“Probably.” Hsu made a show of checking his watch. “I give myself ten minutes.” 

“If you die, I want your music collection.”

“Negative.”

“Then just your Vera Keyes.”

“Double negative.”

Rich cocked an eyebrow. “A double negative is a positive.”

Hsu grinned. “I want to be burned with all my possessions, like a funeral pyre. You know, how some of the tribal warlords go.”

“Ah, yes, James Hsu: he was as selfish asshole in death as he was in life.”

“When have I been a selfish asshole.”

“You never share your music.”

“Not since you got drunk and broke my Songs from the Shark Club holo.”

“Oh, not that again.” Rich heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Must I live with that forever. Also, I remind you that I coughed up real paper money to have that fixed for you.” 

“Yes, but the sound is off and now Esperanza sings almost a full octave deeper.”

“Gives you chills, doesn’t it?” Rich laid down his cards. “Anyway, I wouldn’t joke about poison when Cassandra shows up. You know how she operates. Shoot first, ask questions later. You keep your hurt tummy talk to yourself, Jim, or else she’ll stick her fingers down your throat in good company.” 

The mental image brought on a smirk, and James said, “I can’t see her coming to this.” After a pause, he asked, “Why.. did she say anything to you?”

“Your cards, Jim.” Rich nudged his chair. “Oh, I don’t know, I assumed she’d have been talking to you. Colonel talk, that kind of thing. Not for lowly doctors to know.”

“What about old academy friends?” 

“She might.”

“I don’t think she’d like it: sure, movers and shakers, the top crowd, but most of them are here to have fun in Vegas, a bunch of drunken businessmen and senators.” 

“Yes, but those drunken senators are friends of Lee, and she’s best-buds with the good general now isn’t she? The good old ranger club?” Richards’ eyes danced. “I can’t wait for one of them to make a stupid remark in front of her. It would be the stuff of legends.” 

After a moment of Hsu sorting through his hand to play, Richards sat forward suddenly. “You don’t want her to be here, do you,” he said. “Why don’t you want her here? Can’t she come to play too?”

“It’s not that.” 

“The hell it isn’t. Either you two stop competing, or just give in, make peace, do something wild and crazy in Vegas. I can’t go on watching.. I’m getting exhausted out here on the sidelines.”

James felt his stomach flip. “That was a long time ago, Rich,” he said. 

“Fine, go play with your drunken senators. Moore and I will go do shots off the Garret twins. That’s something I appreciate about those two. Something for everyone.”

“For all I know, she could be here already. I thought I saw one of the potted plants creeping off.” 

“That would be her, wouldn’t it? Scanning the perimeter? Sandbagging the door to her room?” Richards laughed. “All right, since we’re in a betting mood already.. ” He gestured then to the cards between them on the cocktail table. “What are the odds she gets through the next three days without shooting someone?”

Hsu laid down his cards and revealed a losing hand.


	4. Chapter 4

Ron dreamed of the vault again, its pressing walls, its permanent smell. The foul taste after the water chip corrupted. The darkness after the power source began to fail. The rapid footfalls after the people began to lose their minds, the animal sounds after people lost their humanity. 

He dreamed sometimes of the last two months in there, was it two months, he’d always wondered, at that point they could only tell time by the rate of decay as the bodies decomposed. The population getting smaller in the dark, counted only by the echoes in the tunnels, by the bludgeoning meat sounds, by the mournful cries.

When hands touch his throat he wakes-- and no, no one was there, no one was present. At first, he experienced a kind of confusion as to where he was, where was this room with its fine furniture and patterned carpet. Nice things. Nowhere had nice things anymore.

The Strip.

The Ultra-Luxe.

Picus had awakened two minutes before they would have sounded the trumpet, if it were still McCarran. Almost normal time. He went for a piss and put on running clothes. Tied his shoes tight. Then, before he really thought about it, he went to the door across the hall and knocked for company.

Only after he did so did he realize: Hsu will probably not want to go running. And where would he go running. He just wanted to go running.

The colonel opened his door, blinking, half-awake, and Picus stood there like an idiot. Hsu took the sight of him in, from his running shoes to his PT’s. 

“Ron?”

Sometimes Picus was awkward. He sighed. “Yes.” 

Hsu blinked slowly.

“I thought you would like to run, and then I thought, no. But that was after I knocked.” He had thought briefly of just leaving but then Hsu might wonder what had happened.

The colonel looked like he was coming to. “Did you, by chance, bring any extra PT’s?”

Picus tensed. “Yes. Of course.”

“Sounds great, appreciate it if you spot me.” 

It turned out the Strip by early morning was a great place to run, the way straight, clean, and well-kept. Hardly anyone there, if you ran around the passed-out bodies.

;;; 

The rangers arrived in the dark before the dawn. The party still roared on the Strip, and the band of four cut their way through the crowds. Drunks of all kinds tottered and staggered, men and women, young and old, some in sweat-blotched suits and some in uniform. Women splashed half-naked in the fountains, laughing and calling out to those that passed by. Some others swayed in heels too high for them to handle. 

On the raised landing before one of the casinos, two men dressed as pirates were engaged in theatrical combat. One had a fake parrot made of paper mache on his shoulder. The other was fixed with a real wooden leg. Even tired as he was, Sandoza chortled when he saw them. Nudging Guzman, he said, “Hey you know, you go in this one and you give a few caps, they let you dress up like a pirate.” 

“There’s a place in Freeside that lets you do the same,” Moore remarked drily.

Flaherty chuckled. He knew her best. 

Guzman went about with his eyes wide. You would have thought he never saw such a wonder.

Sandoza had been to the Strip on several occasions, but he remembered only two with any real clarity. He liked to work hard and play hard. So far as she could tell, Sandoza hadn’t slept in any of the rest periods during their travel. The excitement was too much for him. 

“Ma’am, I see the sign for our hotel up ahead.” Flaherty pointed with his chin. “We’re almost there.”

A man dressed like an orange emerged from the crowd.

Moore took stock of their surroundings, her eyes on the securitrons. They were the main point of interest for her, the neon signs be damned. “We’ll go and check in,” she said. “I want our rooms on the same floor by the stairwells. They should already be reserved for us in that layout, but I don’t want it changed. Sandoza, Guzman, you’ll be on the night shift. Flaherty, you’ll be on days. I’ll switch as necessary.” 

Moore sensed the evaporation of her words into air. She turned and found Guzman lagging behind them. He stood paralyzed with the lights of the city in his eyes. For a moment, he looked his age; he had been younger when the Legionary elite crushed Yuma, leaving him vengeful and old before his time. He was cautious and quiet, feral, with a sixth sense and hard-bitten way about him like a stray cat beyond hope. Yet for a moment, Fernando Guzman stood gawking with the lights of the city in his eyes. 

Liveried doormen opened the way for them into the Ultra-Luxe. Full AC engulfed them in a blast of frigid air, and the difference in temperature was intense. One of the valets stepped up to search them for weapons, a tall man with a lush head of black hair. Her frank refusal seemed to take him aback, but before things could get ugly, one of the higher ranking White Gloves rushed to interject. 

There had been an understanding with the NCR. 

Without it, Moore wouldn’t have bothered; to hell with whoever’s stupid idea it was to gather everybody together like this. If she was in the Brotherhood, she’d have taken the shot. 

Moore refused to be charmed by the plush patterned carpets, by the towering sculptures of artisan glass and the lushness of exotic greenery. She recognized a species of cactus typically found at higher altitude, a rare subtype with medicinal properties for the desperate survivalist. She saw a type of palm that must have been imported. Much of the things here were brought from far away or preserved from long ago, a pretentious display from the preening elites of the White Glove Society. 

In a brilliant blue flash, a live parrot flapped across the casino lobby as the tired rangers moved. The bird was yet another novelty from deep Mexico, brought no doubt by the caravans out of Legion territory. The pragmatist in Cassandra admired the protection of the trade lines, but that was the only positive point that the Legion held over the NCR. All they needed do was cut some of the red tape and the NCR could do the same and better-- without the subjugation of women and captive human slaves.

The last lounge singer of the night was at the microphone, and his voice came smooth and low in the next game lobby. Some of the gamblers were still at the same machines, cranking away in vain hope, and some players still sat at cards. Men in sport coats and women in dresses and diamonds turned briefly to regard the rangers, who rucked in sweat-stained dusters, body armor, and sandy boots. 

One of the women caught Cassandra’s eyes for just a moment, toying with her necklace of pearls, and she frowned in a disapproving manner. 

The White Gloves attempted to disperse the four of them around the hotel, but Moore pushed back. The rooms were to be exactly as she wanted; the rangers were not to be separated. Otherwise she could not be held responsible for the quality of the other guests’ stay. The pompous ass hemmed and hawed from behind his mask, and Cassandra burned with irritation despite the frigid air conditioning.

Guzman and Sandoza shared a room, while those of Flaherty and Moore faced across one another-- just in case. Privacy was necessary, but so was security. Out of habit, the four began their room search in silence, room by room, checking lamps and drawers and paintings for any tampering or signs of devices. Guzman used to argue that the Legion did not do those things, but he began to come around to the threat of the Brotherhood, who were truly sophisticated.

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” Flaherty said after it was clear. “They’re pompous, but they don’t have teeth. They’re harmless. The lesser of the evils.” 

“I’ll agree that they’re the lesser of the evils,” Moore said, “but there’s too many rumors about them. Disappearances. Strange rites.”

“I’d bet that some of those rumors were probably started here in this casino. They probably loved to be talked about. Spread the hype. A dash of mystery.” 

“True, but not too long ago, forces out of McCarran busted a serial murderer who ate his victims. He lived out on the outskirts but seemed to have some ties to the White Glove inner circle.”

Flaherty shook his head. “I remember that. A strange case. Still, there’s no letting down your guard anywhere. With your say so, I’m going to stay up a few hours more before I rest. I want to get acquainted and ease into my schedule. Get to know the lay of the land, so to speak.” 

“Good. Thank you, Flaherty. Make sure Guzman doesn’t get into any trouble out here.”

“Yes, ma’am. Don’t worry, I don’t think he’s much of a gambler. Just wants to look at the sights is all.” 

“Remember it’s as dangerous here as anywhere else.. just in a different way.” Moore shook her head. “Dismissed.” 

It was a relief to shuck off her weight and her duster, but the room was colder than she would have preferred. She sank onto one of the ottomans in order to rest her knee, grimacing at the sharp-tight ache building around her kneecap.

She assessed her luggage. Weapons, appropriate outfits for several occasions, her first aid kit. She didn’t think she’d need anything out of it except for painkiller tablets to cure a hangover, but she had learned to be prepared. When she was a green troop just five months in, she’d had a friend lose an arm in an ambush. The nightkin came out of nowhere with an edge of metal sharpened to a vicious edge. Moore was able to save her comrade’s life by tying his belt tight around the stump in order to control the bleeding.

She brought two dresses also. She supposed they would draw some comments from people who never saw her wearing one, or never thought she could. 

Moore felt her eyelids grow heavy. The furniture was deep and soft and finely upholstered. It seemed to want to take all her burdens. 

Her eyes opened sharply again. Maybe she should take a shower. Relax. Yes, but she wanted to talk to Hsu first. He would already be here.

Somehow she felt she knew that someone would knock on her door a few seconds before they did. She was already alert when it happened. 

Half-expecting Flaherty had come back with a question, Moore eyed the peephole nevertheless. She saw the tailored suit and ivory mask of a White Glove valet.

“What is it?” she rasped.

“Ma’am, I wished to ask if you found your arrangement satisfactory?” The voice of the valet seeped richly through the door. “It would be my pleasure to bring you anything more that you required.”

How about you go fuck yourself, she thought. Sighed. She promised Lee that she would at least attempt to play nice. 

She opened the door and the masked head inclined smartly as he faced her. She could not see his face but for his eyes and the expression of his brows. He had short dark hair kept neatly, and although he was not especially tall, there was a fine slenderness about his body that made him seem to stand a greater height. He had long hands with long fingers. 

“It’ll do,” she said. “What I want is to be left alone. None of us in these four rooms will be needing housekeeping or service. If we need something, we’ll tell you. We don’t want our privacy disturbed.”

“Of course, ma’am,” the valet replied, and she did not know if she liked the silken quality of his voice. “We don’t ask questions here, as privacy and comfort are paramount here.”

“Right on that,” she said. “This is, after all, New Vegas.”

The dark eyes gleamed. “Yes, ma’am. Of course. But please do let me know if there is anything you need.”

;;;

After their run, Picus and Hsu fell in with a band of MPs on their way to Rosa’s, a Mexican cookshop on the outskirts of Vegas. He didn’t like to go unarmed for so long a time, but the security team all carried and were headed there anyway. The military police recognized Hsu right away, but he asked them to withhold their salutes while they went together. Good; that would draw attention to himself as a person of importance.

Rosa’s cookshop was a popular destination, a series of mismatched and brightly colored overhangs and tent-tops that shaded rickety tables for traders and caravan hands. A young man trotted up to their group to greet and seat them; he was very white with a long body, slender, with rough-looking hands from cooking and cleaning. He was what most people would consider very good-looking, high cheekbones with a full mouth, and he had a long tail of blond hair tied back. 

He didn’t look you in the eye.

Hsu and Picus sat slightly apart from the others, drinking cold glasses of water in their own company. It felt good after a long run. 

They both went for eggs with cheese and jalapenos; Picus was content to wolf down breakfast in silence, but Hsu seemed in the mood for conversation. He always seemed to be.

“How’s Martina doing?” he asked; he remembered names as sharply as faces. 

“She’s doing well,” Picus answered, somewhat uncomfortably. The colonel’s sharp memory would always be a problem for him; he had to keep his story straight. 

The colonel’s next question came lightly: “Everything all right there?”

Before he could control his reaction, Picus heaved a sigh. 

“That good?”

Picus took a big bite and considered what he should say. Of course the colonel would think he was going steady with Martina; that was very convenient for an excuse, by the way, but he didn’t know what to do or say about it.

Hsu set down his fork and crossed his arms on the table, his body leaning in slightly as though Ron’s problems were all that mattered in the world at this moment. His eyes were very kind.

“I made her upset,” Picus admitted, “and I didn’t mean to, but I’m confused.”

“What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Picus shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“I’m going to guess, and you can tell me if I’m way off on this one. Or you can tell me you don’t want to talk about it, because it’s your business and not mine.” Hsu kept his voice low, so that the others would not hear. They were too busy with eggs and salsa. “Martina isn’t able to tell how you feel able her, and so she’s upset, and you’re not used to this at all. And you don’t understand why she could be so worked up over it.” 

Picus ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s-- that’s it. I don’t want her to be so upset. It was working out well and I don’t want this to ruin our relationship.” 

“Do you care about her?” 

“Yes. I want to be with her.”

“You should tell her that. Exactly those words, if you have to. It’s always difficult to explain how you really feel, but it’s helpful. It clears the air. You have to let the other person know what you want. No one’s a mindreader.”

Picus nodded slowly, his eyes on his plate. 

“This would be your first real relationship, I’m guessing?” After a pause, Hsu smiled gently. “I mean that in the most understanding way possible. You’ve been through a lot, you’re a survivor, and the men look up to you. There’s more than a few ladies around camp who have a crush on you-- but I know you’re very patient and discerning when it comes to other people. This Martina must be special.”

“She is. It was hard finding someone like her.” The words came out slowly, unsteadily, as Picus attempted to control his line of thought. “I didn’t know what I’d think about her at first, but it was easier to trust her than I thought. Very intelligent, very sharp, very good with people. I learn so much when I’m around her. I don’t want that to change.”

“Does she know about you?”

“She knows I was born in a vault. She thought it was a novelty-- she works in one.”

Hsu nodded. “My wife was a vault-dweller,” he said. “One thing I learned was that.. we have different perspectives sometimes. Early in our marriage, I used to tear my hair out when Evelyn never wanted to go out or do anything. I was home for a short time between campaigns, and all I wanted was to enjoy life and some semblance of civilization. She never wanted to go see a vid, she never wanted to go out to dinner-- you know how bored you get in camp, how hungry for real food. 

Picus watched him while he talked, his expressive face, his very understanding look. He could not imagine ever being spoken to in such a way by an officer in the Legion. 

“Well, she’d humor me.. but I could tell she was miserable. I was being a selfish bastard. Lieutenant Hsu wasn’t very impressive, let me tell you that right now. So, I considered her feelings.. we talked about it.. it turned out she was very uncomfortable in wide open spaces and with people she didn’t know, and she liked to be at home. She felt safe there. I saw it from her point of view: she grew up in a closed-in little world where she knew everyone, so there weren’t any strangers, and there weren’t any surprises. So, when I would come home, we would make time at home, staying home together, doing things quietly to enjoy each other’s company. We talked, we read books together. We found other ways to pass the time... “

“What should I do?”

“Communicate. Talk about your differences. It’s good that Martina appears to be understanding of your origins in the vault; you might ask her to exercise that understanding again, and you might try apologizing for making her upset.”

Picus couldn’t believe his superior officer was telling him that; he could never imagine a centurion who would tell him to apologize to a woman. “I didn’t intend to.”

“No, but sometimes we cause damage all the same. Anyhow, Martina’s smart, she’ll come to realize that you both had some difficulty understanding each other.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Hsu smiled. “It’s best to be honest,” he said. “It’s the best way forward. No matter what happens.”

;;;;

 

James showered, shaved, soaped. One of the things he liked best about the Strip was the excellent radio reception; there was always interference in McCarran for some reason. Here the voice of Mister New Vegas sounded so crisp and sharp, you would have thought the man himself was standing in the adjoining room.

The mirror kept steaming over itself, and Hsu wiped it down with a washcloth. That was something that seemed odd to him, after all this time; everything matched in the hotel, from the paint schemes to the patterned carpet, to the dishes and cutlery, to the towels with their embroidery. Interesting that the idea of high class might be ‘everything is the same’.

The day felt like it was starting off well; he hadn’t drank very much at all, so he didn’t experience a hangover. He enjoyed the unexpected run, the breakfast at Rosa’s cookshop, and the sunrise talk with Curtis. Poor awkward Ron. Hsu hoped he helped; he honestly wanted the best for his young captain.

There was a towel within reach, and wait.. someone was handing it to him! 

“Radio on. Your back to the door. Anyone could have come in here and killed you. Your situational awareness was always shit, James.”

He covered the important parts with the towel, oh Christ. “Cassandra.”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before.” She didn’t look at him though, leaned with her back against the wall. He saw only the damp frazzle of red hair and the shoulder of her battered duster. She looked sweaty, dirty, glorious. “This entire conference is a target-rich environment.”

“Good thing you’re here.”

“I’m not joking.”

“How’s the conference? Has your ego been properly stroked?”

“It’s more or less what I expected. I’m glad you could make it.”

“I’m not convinced. Too many chiefs, not enough braves?”

“Technically, you outrank me by a few months. When did you get in?”

“Two hours ago.”

“Christ, you should get some sleep. Is your room set up, do you need anything brought up?”

“I can go forty-eight hours without sleep, seventy-two if necessary.” 

He kept his smile gentle. “The last time you said that,” he pointed out, “I found you drooling on my shoulder.” She had looked adorable, though, if adorable was a word you would use for such a ferocious spirit.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep my drool to myself this time. I wanted a look around while the place was quiet. I don’t like this.”

“You don’t really think.. ?”

“Elijah is still out there.”

“I thought of that.. but it’s a bad time for the Brotherhood of Steel to try anything. The securitrons would know if there were any high-tech attempts, and they can’t wear their armor here. We’d kill them outright if they tried anything.. they have fewer numbers than we do. They have more to lose. Plus, access to the Strip is highly restricted.”

“Fair enough. But it’s what I would do.”

“If you won’t go to sleep, will you join me for coffee?” 

“I’m not dressing up for it.” 

;;;

Picus didn’t return right away to the Ultra-Luxe. He didn’t want to go indoors, and even the fortified Strip felt uncomfortable. Closing in. Hsu was correct in his advice; he needed information and Martina was an excellent source. The easiest source. Of course he could replace her, but it would take time and effort. Best to keep her. He should talk to her.

Yet he passed Vault 21 twice, and he couldn’t make himself go in there. He never wanted to enter a vault again. Even the sight of the door made his blood cold.

He took out his agitation on a drunk soldier tucked into a nook. The young man had passed out with his hand on his face. Anyone could have robbed or killed him here. Well-- if the Strip weren’t policed by the machines.

Picus kicked his boot until he woke. The kid was in for it.

The day was starting to heat up, and Picus was ready to return to the hotel. He didn’t like to feel crowded, especially crowded and warm, and he was starting to feel gritty and uncomfortable. He preferred to be clean.

The morning doorman gave him a rotten look, taking in his sweaty and unkempt appearance. Yet he let Picus by without comment; most people found him physically imposing, moreso when he was in a mood.

Hsu called out to him from one of the cocktail tables in the lounge on his way to the elevators. Picus turned and went, and there he found a rare sight: both colonels together.

Women captured by the Legion tended to wear out quickly, used up by twenty-five if they even made it so long. Only some of the priestesses and less strictly-handled Flagstaff wives retained their looks. It was unusual for Picus to see an older woman of such strong good looks. She would be in her early forties, like Hsu.

Hsu smiled. “This is Captain Ronald Curtis.” 

“I’ve heard about you. Direct. To the point. I like it that way.”

“Ma’am, I would offer to shake but I just finished my run.”

“A little sweat. A little dirt. Nothing to me.” The colonel stuck out her hand. When Picus reached for it, she gripped his wrist instead. “Why is it that no one knows you from Dayglow, Ron Curtis?” 

The smile vanished from Hsu’s face.

Ron’s blood froze. “Ma’am?”

Her eyes probed him for weakness. “They said you just showed up.”

“Ma’am, I’m surprised that you asked about me,” he replied. 

The hard stare fell away and she began to explore his captive hand with a scrutinizing look. “Something about you didn’t add up,” she replied.

Ron didn’t dare look at Hsu; from the periphery he could tell the man was sitting straighter, his attention fixed on what was playing out before him. Hsu would naturally defend Ron at first, being that he was of lower rank and ‘belonged’ to him, but suspicion from Moore was an another thing altogether. 

His mind flashed to what he was told to do if he were about to be caught: Silva smiled and explained what the NCR did with certain prisoners, the long months of terror and torture that followed. It was best to go on your own terms. Kill yourself before they catch you.

He suddenly understood what she was looking for. The peculiar inspection of his arm. 

“You want to know if I’m from the Brotherhood of Steel,” he said slowly. “You’re looking at my hands for energy burns or the scar from a gauntlet.”

She smiled now. Her grip did not release.

“I’m not from the Brotherhood, but you’re right, ma’am, it’s a fake name-- Curtis. I saw it on an orange crate and liked how it sounded. Curtis Grove Citrus Cooperation. I’ve always been Ron, but we didn’t have last names in our vault. If I had a power gauntlet the scar would be on the right arm. But the Pip Boy is worn on the left so I can type with the right.”

Hsu watched the exchange closely.

Moore appeared to be satisfied with the answer. She released him. “Interesting,” she said. “Uncontacted vaults are a rare thing these days. Most run out of power and supplies.”

“Ours did.”

Hsu let out a breath. “I appreciate you looking out for me,” he said. “You can’t be too careful. In the time that we’ve focused on fighting back the Legion, you can bet the Brotherhood has regrouped for another go.” He changed gears with a more welcoming inflection. “Ron has truly been an asset. I’m glad he found his way to us. “

Moore nodded. “That’s the difference between us and the Brotherhood.. we’ll welcome anyone with a desire to make things better, but the Brotherhood has always been paranoid, closed-off, and cultish. I wonder how many of them even remember what they’re fighting for.”

“Thank you, sir. Ma’am.”

Moore offered her hand for a real shake; her grip was firm. “Sealed in a vault all this time. What’s it like coming up to the surface and seeing what happened with the war?” 

“Like waking up from a bad dream,” Picus replied, “and seeing a worse reality.”

Ron held himself together until he reached the elevator. There in its confines he let out an enormous breath. His heart was pounding. She seemed to believe his answer. That was enough. She wouldn’t press on that again. His cover was sound. His cover was good. They wouldn’t probe farther than that because it was true. That part was true. 

She probably did this to everyone. They all said she was intimidating. She probably did this because she was a woman.

Hsu’s reaction. Hsu didn’t seem like he suspected Ron, and only on Moore’s suspicion did he seem to consider some other possibility. He must place an enormous amount of trust in her. 

Ron did well. He tried to tell himself that. He did well, and it was best that something like this happened; it would build his credibility.

I am stronger for this, he told himself, and he met his eyes in the reflection off the elevator doors.

Then the doors opened and Vulpes Inculta stepped on.


	5. Chapter 5

Picus froze. The White Glove valet was wearing the half-mask of their society, the sharp tailored suit, but he would know those eyes anywhere. Those cold eyes.

The other frumentarius leaned in to press two buttons, one first-- a floor-- and then after a moment, the other. The emergency stop. 

“Hello, brother Picus.”

“Vulpes Inculta.”

“I see your scar has healed. I can barely detect it on your left eyelid. I hope your lesson has not likewise faded.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I was personally asked to deliver our lord’s message to the White Glove Society.”

“Which is?”

“Unpleasant, I’m afraid.”

“There’s an NCR delegation here this week.. you have nothing to say of that?”

“A happy coincidence, but the son of Mars has planned for all. Isn’t it wonderful to celebrate President Tandi’s birthday?” 

“What’s going to happen?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“It’s in poor taste to ruin a lady’s birthday surprise.” Fox smiled with his eyes. “What do you know of the White Glove Society?”

They were a tribe of witches found by House. They lived in caves and hid from other raiders on the surface, but they captured people and ate them.” 

“Like spiders, almost, don’t you think?”

Picus said nothing.

“Yes. The rumors are true. They tried to give up flesh, but they are disgusting monsters. Their practices offend the gods. In the new world we are making... there is no place for them.” 

“What’s going to happen to them?”

“You will see.” Fox clasped his hands together. “Your brothers and I have been smoothing the way for their destiny. It is only recently that we learned that the NCR sends its people to eat at this trough. How wonderful, how fortunate for us. They will suffer also. It pleases the gods.”

“I didn’t know any of this.”

“You weren’t included. You don’t need to be a part. You only need to act naturally.”

“Are they going to kill Hsu?”

“No, you are. But not yet. Not this time. You told us yourself that he is better alive than dead. He preaches restraint, and we need time. He will give us the time that we need. Better him than some other colonel like Moore, who wants to come across the river and chase us herself.”

“She accused me of being a Brotherhood agent.”

“Are you?”

“What, no.”

“Did you tell her your little life story?”

“I said I was born in a vault.”

“Then don’t worry. A little doubt is good.. it shows that people have taken your quirks into consideration, and that your unique upbringing is there to explain.”

Picus returned to it. “How many frumentarii are here?” he said. 

“Enough to throw a proper party.”

“I want to know.”

“And you don’t get to. Silva’s orders. How is Miss Groesbeck doing, by the way?” 

“She attempted to throw herself at me.”

“Attempted? Did you reject her?”

“I did. I couldn’t allow a distraction.”

“If you think that’s best, I suppose, but you should be careful.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“They say honey attracts better than vinegar. Anyhow, good luck, brother Picus. I will try not to kill you, but if I do, it is nothing personal. Only trying to look authentic.”

With that, he unstuck the elevator and went off.

;;;

The Strip activities were still going in the heat of midday. Fountains burbled. Machines whirred. Tamed animals danced to a sluggish tune. Music could be heard from the open doors of the casinos, where doormen sweated in their fine suits to greet tourists and travelers struggling in from outside. 

Junked away at the end of the Strip stood the ramshackle building allotted for the NCR Embassy and the Military Police. Despite heat and hangovers, business ran as usual. 

Moore still wore the uniform from the night before. Having brushed her suit, combed her hair, and splashed water over her face, she was good to go. Her purpose kept her busy, kept her awake, along with three bitter mugs of Mexican coffee. 

James looked showered and fresh, not a hair out of place, as he usually did. With Hsu it all looked easy and simple. Looking at him now, you’d never know he had suffered on the brink of death with a punctured lung and a roaring infection. He had been one of the few to fight Joshua Graham and live. She wondered how his run went this morning; what his pace was like, if he held his posture right, if his breathing was under control. 

She insisted on accompanying him to the eleven hundred, but he made noises about her “needing rest” and “taking it easy” until she stamped hard on his insole when no one was looking. Don’t give me that shit James. 

A sarcastic-looking older man had parked his bulk at the messhall counter; there was a tiny bear flag pinned to his lapel and his untied tie hung free. In the dark and dusty interior of the building, he still wore his sunglasses. He was a blocky white man of dark hair with a gingery five o’clock shadow.

“Well there Cassandra,” he grunted. “You look how I feel.”

“Senator Borkowski,” Moore replied. “You’ve gained weight.” 

“You see how she talks to me, James?” The senator shook his head. “Keeps things lively I guess. Jesus Christ, James. It’s been forever.” 

He put out a hand-- Moore knew it was going to be limp, clammy, weak-- and Hsu shook it with a visible firmness. “Thank you, Bert, but we had a few drinks together last night.” 

“Wellp, must have had more than a few because it’s all blank. Also, don’t talk so loud.”

Hsu smiled gently. “You requested time to talk about power.”

“Power, or POWER?” 

Moore crossed her arms. “Same thing, as far as I’m concerned.”

“I’d rather not talk here in the messhall,” Hsu went on, “it’s making people nervous.”

“Let’s go for a walk,” Moore said, “you can sweat some of that out in the Mojave sun.”

“She’s a damn tyrant, James.” Borkowski shook his head. “Cast me out into the desert, lash me with a whip.. “

“I was thinking someplace more private.. and less whips.”

;;;;

“Now let me make one thing clear,” Borkowski said as he mopped sweat from his face with a handkerchief. “Thank you both for your service, respect your work, so on so forth, but if you think I’m going to slog my ass through the wasteland to look at some shitty old power station and a chunk of concrete, you’re out of your mind.”

Moore circled the desk like a predator. “That chunk of concrete is the Hoover Dam, and it’s our future,” she hissed. She could see the regret on his face that he had boxed himself in behind the absent ambassador’s desk. 

Hsu shut the office door behind him. “Are you sure about that, Bert? I’ve got a number of vehicles and crack marksmen at my disposal. Wouldn’t you like a drive down the highway with First Recon riding shotgun?”

Borkowski made a face.

Then James nodded slowly and let out a small sigh. Very small. He accepted it. Even after all these years, Cassandra experienced discomfort when James let his disappointment show. “I don’t know what to say, senator, given that you’re the voice of Hub City and the sub-chair of the committee. Your people count on you to take care of their interests.”

Borkowski shook his head, and he pulled his sunglasses off bloodshot eyes. “I should have known you’d be the good cop. Christ, I think I’m being interrogated.”

“If I was interrogating you,” Moore said. “You’d know.”

“Truth is, my good colonels, I didn’t come here to get my hands dirty in it all. I don’t want to look at some Brotherhood deathtrap. I want to look at light shows and lovely ladies. If you tell me what you think’s best, I’ll trust you both, I’ll take your word for it. You’re the experts. I won’t get in your way and tell you how to do your business.” 

Moore arched an eyebrow. She looked into the weary red-rimmed eyes across the desk, and she could read a pained and cynical sincerity in his face. She had never liked politicians, least of all Borkowski, who had weaseled his way into office after many years as a lawyer. 

“Is it going to be that easy, then?” she asked, and she didn’t bother to keep the doubt from her voice.

Borkowski shrugged. “Shit. I’d have to be crazy to stand in the way of the power lines. I want stoves and refrigerators in my constituents’ homes. I just don’t want to lug my fat ass out to the dam. You tell me what you need.” 

James glanced her way; their eyes met; he shrugged, and then a genuine smile crossed his face. “I knew we’d get along.” He gestured for Moore to please be seated, but she chose the edge of the desk instead. Fair enough. “We’re faced with several obstacles in this endeavor. The chief issue is security: the Legion, the Brotherhood of Steel, the fiends, raiders, feral ghouls, and other garden variety troublemakers. That’s not even taking into account the local wildlife.”

“Well, I can cross one of those off for you, James. The Legion’s beaten. You both were there. Graham must have thought he was the biggest swinging dick til Boulder City went sky high. Not so invincible then, was he. Now he’s dead and it’s only a matter of time before the Legion implodes. Everyone knows that.”

“Everybody but Ed Sallow.” James pulled out a chair to seat himself. The portrait of Aaron Kimball watched them all. “It remains to be seen what he will do in the long term. He’s a bully, and like all bullies who get beaten, he could go slinking back to look for easier pickings. But he’s a psychopath too.. and he might not be able to stand defeat. He might be the kind that won’t allow it.”

Moore smirked. “Practically speaking, he won’t be able to survive defeat,” she said. “He bred an army of angry men who kill and take. That’s all they know. The old man showed weakness. They smell blood. He’s going to have to drive them against us, sooner or later.” 

Borkowski began to look through the drawers of the ambassador’s desk. “Now talk to me about the Brotherhood.” 

“Their presence in the Mojave centered around Helios One, the solar power station south of here. We lost a lot of good men when we drove them out.”

Hsu added, “There’s a lot of speculation as to why the Brotherhood demonstrated more interest in Helios One, a relatively smaller power station with a number of damaged reflectors.” 

“Well, they like to hoard their tech, don’t they?” Borkowski shrugged. “I don’t think they could control the Dam.”

“O’Brien thinks they were trying to turn Helios One into a weapon,” Moore continued. “He claims the original purpose of the power station was some kind of beam weapon, but that it wasn’t in its final stages. There was some other piece that was missing. A handheld controller.”

Borkowski had finally fished out a bottle of liquor from the ambassador’s desk. “Well,” he said, “I’m guessing they didn’t find it, or else we would have seen it?”

“Negative. We were able to take the station and drive Elijah’s forces out. We have reason to believe they’re still in the area, possibly sheltered in a bunker headquarters. It’s only a matter of time before they attempt to strike again. There’s too much at stake for them to remain inactive.”

“So you think they want to hit us with our guard down?”

“Yes. We were focused on the Legion. The problem is intertwined: no matter what we choose, we need to destroy one in order to face the other. The Legion is a horde of jumped-up tribal raiders; we could decimate them with our technology and discipline. Hell. What I wouldn’t give to see one good vertibird strike on those skirt-wearing sons of bitches.”

Hsu shook his head. “As soon as we committed more vehicles, moved vertibirds.. that would leave our flank open to the Brotherhood of Steel. We need that kind of technology against them, and when it comes to it.. we struggle to break even. They’ve got the best weapons and tech.”

“O’Brien says if we find the bunker,” Moore said, “we can close it off and fumigate.” 

Borkowski let out a whistle. “That’s one way to do it, Jesus Christ! So you’re friends with O’Brien now. What does good old Lee Oliver say about that?” 

“Mr O’Brien has certain ways of approaching problems,” Hsu cut in. “Unorthodox, maybe, but when you ask him.. he’ll give you all the options. He’s done a great service to the Republic.. “

“And he won’t let you forget it! Bitching and moaning to the end of time.”

“He’s a fascinating person to talk to. I learn something different every time.”

“I don’t trust him, and I say that as a weaselly snake who knows his own.” Borkowski lifted the bottle as though to toast. “So, good colonels, what you’re telling me is that we need to knock out the Brotherhood of Steel and the Legion, and we need to do it in some massive campaign to kill them all at the same time. Vehicle cavalry, vertibird strikes, the whole kit and kaboodle. O’Brien wants to go on a killing spree again and Moore wants to go crawling through the trenches with a knife clenched in her teeth. Hsu’s going to lead the charge in a white truck and First Recon is going to shoot all their eyes out. Then we’ll all clink glasses, laugh, and come up for a slogan for the presidential campaign: Hsu/Moore, the only time you’ll vote Chinese and red!” 

Hsu shook his head. “That’s hyperbole; only the basic idea is what we’ve outlined to you, and that is based in sound--” 

“I’ll be laughed out of the senate,” Borkowski grumped. “Oh no no-- don’t kill me, Cassandra, I see your look! Hold your fire. I believe what you’re saying. Sure. But you have to find a way to sell it. You’ve got to selllll it to a jury.. ah, to the people. Everybody’s tired of fighting. They don’t want it again.”

“Are you talking about them,” Moore said, “or you? Coming here for your talks and conferences, and you won’t even talk. The whole lot of you just came here for good times and cheap thrills.”

“My thrills have been very expensive so far,” Borkowski put in. “Now let’s find a way to package what you’ve just told me. I’ll think on it. You know I don’t want the Legion clawing their way to Hub, and I sure as hell don’t want the Brotherhood to run around with some kind of sunbeam weapon. They’re irritating enough as it is. Remember when they melted our gold? Jeeesus.”

;;;

“I’m not going to count any chickens before they hatch,” Moore remarked on their way back to the Ultra-Luxe. “Borkowski is a self-serving prick, and he’ll only do the bare minimum.”

Hsu chuckled. “Personally, I think he’ll find a way to get on the fence on this one. Have it both ways.”

“Oh, no.. such cynicism from you.” Moore mocked a look of sorrow. “Does this mean our poor James is finally growing up?”

He showed her a smile. “I’m perfectly aware of human nature. I want things to go better, and I try my best to change the things that I personally control. I can’t make Borkowski or any of the others see reason. I can lead them to water.. but I can’t make them drink.”

“Well. Can’t make them drink water, at least. Canadian whisky and Jalisco tequila, on the other hand.. “

Hsu snorted. She let it drop; there was nothing more they could do about it today, and she had no desire to pick a fight. Not with him. Although they stood on different sides across these past twenty years, they always found a way to meet in the middle when it mattered. She understood his perspective, at least how he would arrive to some of his opinions and decisions. 

Right from the first she hit the ground running. As a private she was always there when she was needed and never when she wasn’t; she kept her kit tidy, she kept her rifle clean, and she never lost anything that was issued to her. When a sergeant asked for volunteers, she had already stepped forward by the time the words were out of his mouth. 

By the time they discovered she lied about her age, it was already too late; they needed her and she held too much promise. “Damn it, Moore, you’re putting me in a bad spot,” the captain told her when she was made to stand before him in the command tent. “I’m getting rid of you.. but you’ve gained the respect of the men and the notice from above. They say there might be a spot waiting for you in the academy, if that’s what you want.”

And it was. She saw what she wanted and she took it. Never lose initiative. Never lose momentum. 

That was the whole part that irritated her.

Now they could do nothing but wait for these soft pudgy people to see it their way.. but what did it matter? If the Legion poured across the river in several years, it wouldn’t be these mens’ sons who were lost fighting them. If Father Elijah and the Brotherhood took the power station again, it wouldn’t be these mens’ homes that lost electricity. 

She hated to wait and see. That was the one thing that ground her gears about Oliver. Wait-and-see-Lee, Jesus Christ. These were his people right here. These were his boys. For a man that she had personally seen charge into battle with a revolver in each hand, like some kind of deranged vigilante from a radio play, she found him unexpectedly reticent in other arenas. Maybe he’d get angry that she and James tried to nudge the delegation in the right direction, but then, this was their show here: James with McCarran and her with the dam. They knew best and Oliver should respect that. Hell, he’d asked her to come and that was his own damn fault if she told them what he didn’t want them to hear.

It was at this point in her sleep-deprived reverie that an errant circus freak attempted to entertain her on the street. It went poorly. She shot him a look that made it perfectly clear where the sword-swallower could put that sword.

“We’ve done what we can do right now,” Hsu told her. “I think you’d like a hot shower and some rack time.”

“Telling me I stink, James?” 

He gave her a grin. “Affirm.”

“Of course. It means I mean business. But you’re right, I think I’m going to go back and pass out. I’ve had enough of this shit so far, and I’ve only been here a couple of hours.”

“I know it’s not usually your thing.. “

“Lee wanted me to make friends.” 

“Well, that was his first mistake.”

“I don’t have friends.”

“..you have people you haven’t killed yet.”

She gave him a look.

“It’s what the men say. You haven’t heard?”

“I don’t usually gossip with the sewing circle.” She rolled her eyes. “Sorry, James.. it’s good to see you, you know that. I hate the circumstances. I’d rather reconvene back in McCarran and get some work done.” 

“What, you don’t want to ooh and aah with the best of them? How about a drink with gold flakes in the glass? Or veal from a calf force-fed through a crate? Last night a blind man came out to play on a three-hundred year old violin. I also saw a showgirl with gemstones inset in her teeth.”

“Let me guess which was more interesting to the delegation, that, or your budgetary concerns... “

“I should ask Captain Knight to calculate how many pairs of boots we could requisition for the price of just one of those Mexican emeralds.”

“I don’t want to shake their clammy hands and count the diamonds their mistresses wear. I want to talk to the ones that can make a difference and I want to avoid the ones who can’t. I’ll do my part, but I won’t take part of this wasteful ass-patting. I don’t trust any of these Houses, least of all House, and I don’t care if his robots hear me say that.”

“Understood.”

“Other than that I’m planning a war of attrition. I’m going to wait it out in my room, drinking tequila and fucking that bellboy through the mattress. Maybe.”

James shook his head as though he pitied the poor soul. “At least come out to the celebration on Tandi’s birthday. You’ll look good there.” A smile flashed across his face and it recalled to her how he had been when he was younger. “I mean, it will be good for you to be seen there. A strong woman of her type.”

“Ha-- Tandi wouldn’t have tolerated this shit. She’d have set them straight.”

“Come now-- I thought Kimble was part of the old elite, you and Oliver.” 

“I don’t know what happened. It’s like they checked their balls in the coatroom.”

Hsu threw back his head and laughed. “Never change, Cassandra. If you change your mind, Rich was talking about a friendly card game later, by the way.”

“I’ll clean you out.” 

“I said a FRIENDLY card game, please.”

;;;;

 

If I was a bomb, Picus thought, where would I be?

He tried to approach the problem as if he were the planner. He had to assume the measures were drastic. There were too many White Gloves and as one of the three favored Houses, their wealth and power were immense. Movers and shakers from all over the region came to the Ultra-Luxe. If Lord Caesar was as serious as Vulpes’ claim, then it would have to be something significant to take out both the White Gloves and the NCR.

They wouldn’t be able to smuggle in enough weaponry, or would they? If Vulpes was not alone in posing as a casino worker, then there might be an opportunity to bring in contraband. 

His thoughts returned to explosives. It seemed the natural choice. In addition it would destroy the Ultra-Luxe and leave a gaping wound on the Strip. A message to House. A message to the NCR. Perhaps the fires would spread, and in these desert conditions...

Picus never thought that Caesar would let the Strip stand as it was. Not that it mattered. Ron would never live to see that day.

Sometimes it was difficult to approach the idea of his own demise. It was certain. He accepted that when he agreed to take the wolf mantle of his order. It was all for Patty-- Tiberia, now, as she called herself among the priestesses.

Daytime was good as any time to conduct his search. The casino guests lived like gluttonous animals, sleeping off the fat and drink by daylight and emerging at night to feed again. It was true he might encounter casino workers, but they would be busy with cleaning and ordering. He could always pretend to be lost or hungover, or both. 

It would probably occur on the final night, whatever it was. There were too many different meetings and the NCR delegation was scattered. The final night would be the best time to find everyone together, White Gloves and NCR alike.

Picus went for the event room; it was something like an auditorium as well as a dining space. Yesterday there had been a talk held here on agriculture and Ron was glad not to have participated. He was of the opinion that it was too damned hot in the Mojave and there was no reason for any of this to exist. When House died it would likely fall apart on its own.. as many things did.. 

He found the great room empty, for the most part, with the chairs stacked on the tables for cleaning. Three acrobats in plain clothing were working out choreography on the stage, walking through it, trying again. Two continued while the one looked his way. That one had very red hair, a white male with a skinny whip of a build. The others were mixed, more like Ron, and all three shared similarly patterned tattoos. 

Picus recalled that ‘real Arroyo dancers’ were to feature in Tandi’s appreciation dinner. 

“You look lost,” called a soft sure voice from the bar area. “Can I help you?” 

One of the casino men was wiping down the counter, a man in his early thirties with a solid build. He was black with high cheekbones and braided hair. As with the other White Gloves, his suit was perfect. 

Ron approached and gave a weak smile. “I think I might have lost my ring here last night,” he said. “Has anyone turned one in?”

“That’s unfortunate,” the bar man replied. “No one’s said anything about a ring.”

Ron forced a sigh. “Well, I won’t forgive myself if I don’t at least look,” he said. “Don’t mind me.”

The bar man looked into his eyes and smiled. “Of course,” he said. “I hope you find whatever it is you are searching for.” 

With that, Picus wasted a quarter of an hour in the auditorium. Nothing looked out of place. The Arroyo dancers became used to his presence and continued their routine. It looked like they were hashing out a lion dance of some kind: Ron had heard of those, but usually they used a deathclaw mockup instead. It was their sacred animal, their totem, the legendary companion of their hero Chitsa.

Picus left the auditorium without results. Likewise he searched the gambling rooms with the same pretext of the missing ring. On a whim, he looked into the potted greenery and came away with cactus needles in his hand for all his trouble. 

One of the White Gloves followed him into the first floor hallways; it was the tall hispanic one that had searched him, the one with the magnificent hair. 

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I can’t find my ring,” Picus replied. “I must have lost it last night. I’m retracing my steps as much as I remember.”

The White Glove chuckled softly. “Que lastima.” 

Picus frowned.

“You won’t find it, brother Picus,” the man told him. “There is nothing you can do.” So saying, he removed his mask. His face was handsome, smirking, with some small scars on his upper and lower lip. Picus had seen him before in Flagstaff, but the name escaped him.

“How many are you?” Picus whispered.

“Enough.”

“Which one are you?”

“Your brother Purpureo.”

Ron connected the name and the face; he knew both separately and now saw the two converge in the confident person standing before him. “Purpureo, I need to know what’s happening. I need to know where to be, where to avoid.”

“Do you? If you’re injured, it looks natural.” 

“You might kill Hsu.” 

“We might.” 

“He should live. Fox said he gets to live-- for now.”

“Are you worried? Is that concern I’m hearing in your voice?”

Picus flushed with anger. “If you kill him, we’ll only get someone worse to replace him. It’s better this way. You’re risking this operation.”

Purpureo raised his gloved hands to waist level. “Calm yourself, brother. We make no promises. You do your best, and we see what happens.” He flashed a smile. “But I must know, what do you think we are going to do? Too curious not to ask.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“They said you were playing dress-up as a soldier for the Bear. This playing as a White Glove, I hate it, but you? For so long? I wonder what you think.”

“I don’t think. I do my job.”

“Good.”

Picus didn’t like his smirk, his deflecting shrug, the way he made Picus feel blocky and foolish standing there. A lesser operative. An unfortunate necessity. 

“Most of us leave our questions in the Ritual,” Purpureo told him. The boredom melted from his face, replaced by a serious and evaluating stare. “You were different, vault dweller. No one else could have made them believe. Your questions came after. Remember why you do this. Remember your sister. I do not wish Tiberia to die-- I believe the gods truly speak to her, that they show her the future. If they kill her because of you-- the gift is wasted.”

“If I was going to leave, I would have done it,” Picus whispered. “I don’t see any of you in the same position. You can play and pretend and prance around this hotel for a couple of weeks, but you don’t have it what it takes to stay in like me. I’m alone in this. Every day I think how I’ll kill myself before they catch me, if they find out. I won’t have you judge me. You couldn’t do it.” 

Purpureo nodded slowly as if he saw what he was looking for. “When the time comes,” he said, “I will look for you. The colonel, you will impress him if you fight off the Legion.” 

“He fought the Burned Man and lived. He doesn’t need me.” 

The frumentarius raised the mask to his face. “He will.”


	6. Chapter 6

At almost exactly eight hours after she shut her eyes, Cassandra woke. A few disoriented moments passed in which she took in the elegant trappings of the room, its unfamiliarity, and the smell of cleanliness. She pushed off the bed, where she had fallen asleep on top of the covers. There was a thin settle of desert dust from her clothing.

She went to shower.

There was some sort of talk being given around this time, but she did not want to attend. It was beyond her interest and outside her sphere of control. She would take her time with the hot water and go downstairs to see who mattered. 

Her knee ached. She knew it would. She soaped and rubbed it through the shower, letting the hot water soak in until she felt lightheaded. 

Out of the shower, the plush carpet felt good on naked toes. She went to her dusty rucksack and took two things from it: a roll of cotton bandages and a green folded garment.

She shook out her green cocktail dress, looked it over, and let it hang for a moment while she tended to her knee. She walked back slowly to the bed, a half-limp walk, and then she adjusted her weight to begin bandaging up her knee. Made it feel better. Supported. Rich had showed her how to wrap it in the best way.

She dried her hair. Put on panties and a bra, one of those decorative and unsupportive types that she reluctantly packed. Her usual workhorse would show in the dress, where this lacy one wouldn’t. She hoped she wouldn’t have to do any running… 

There was something relaxing about sitting in front of a mirror and putting on makeup. The overstuffed ottoman felt good, and she smirked at herself in the reflection of the brightly-lit vanity.

She liked to start with the eyes. She blacked her lashes and drew on a swath of eyeliner with a steady hand. Then she tapped on a little powder, only enough to even out some of the scars and sun damage. She kept a little pot of rouge for cheeks and lips, a color given to her by a former lover back in Shady Sands. 

The green dress was something she used to wear for her ex-husband’s parties, back when she was a captain. It was flattering and comfortable, though the shoes were not. The soles of her feet were well callused and the pads of her toes were tough, and rough patches of deep orange were already rubbed and scraped into the edges of her ankles and heels. Long marches, long treks through the desert. She liked the way that heels looked on some women, but she chose lower heels to throw in her bag. She knew her knee would be hurting. 

As she admired the green cocktail dress in the mirror, a realization struck and she scowled at her reflection. The hem of the dress fell just above her knee and did nothing to conceal the way she wrapped her old injury.

“Oh, damn it,” she muttered.

She supposed she could go like that. To hell what anybody else thinks. But then: I don’t want to draw attention to my injury.

She could wrap and soak her leg later. The claw-foot bathtub. Yes. There was an idea. Perhaps a stiff drink to help it all along..

;;;

 

The luncheon bored her and she moved through the conversations with a light drink in her hand. Somewhere by the indoor fountain, the sound of a familiar voice caught her attention. One of the White Glove valets was handing a glass off a tray to some guests and his silken voice was smooth and civil.

She felt the opportunity to assuage her curiosity. Their eyes met; he paused, and then she approached for a drink.

“I have to admit, I’d never expect to find one of you here,” she said.

He seemed to hesitate, caught up. “Pardon me, ma’am?”

“You know what I mean.”

The moment of hesitation passed and in its place a profound calm appeared. In a great purring tone of wonder, he asked, in honest curiosity, “How did you know?” as though it were some professional tip.

“I heard you talking to the Mexican gentleman earlier. Your Spanish gives you away. I heard you use the word vassa when anyone else would have said agua. You’re a Dead Horse or one of the related tribes, to talk like that.” 

A moment of silence passed. Then the valet began to laugh. “Hablazi lengwa?” he asked in the weird dialect of the wild tribes. 

“Ya, taga vee geitza.” 

“Shuldigan, per zawo konoko zepreken?” 

“I learned it from a tracker who taught me.”

“How perfectly interesting.”

“Your English is very good.”

“I don’t remember learning it, so I must have always had it also.” He winked an eye. “Ijjamo Gabriel.”

“Me kantada, esto Cassandra. I won’t keep you from your errand, but let me guess: you must have gone over to the Mormons at an early age.” 

“You’re very good,” Gabriel told her, and she was curious to know his face. “I can see I’ll have to try very hard to hide things from you.”

“But you’re not a Mormon any more, not with the drink recommendation I heard you make.” 

“No, ma’am,” he replied. “Now I am a sinner.”

She smirked.

“Shuldigan, but I’m being summoned. Please do enjoy yourself here. There is a fountain show at dusk that many enjoy, and we have a practitioner of magic. If there is of course anything else you require, please ask for me.” 

;;;

She never expected to run into Obadiah Parson again. After all these years, the intimidating officer now looked like a child’s favorite granpa on his way to Sunday church. On the wide lapel of his dark blue suit he wore a tiny pin with the bear flag. He was active in the Maxson community and in veterans’ affairs. 

Obadiah Parson greeted her with a firm handshake and then a warm hug, pulling her in for a solid thump. She held her drink out of the way safely and gave a laugh.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” she said.

“The same for you,” cried Parson. He’d put on some weight; it looked good on him, no longer the gaunt and ferocious ranger she remembered. “Oh, my girl. Did Lee bully you into showing up?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny.”

“I’m so proud of you. Defending the Dam! That’s a once-in-a-lifetime posting!”

“Thank you, sir. I’m honored to be there.”

“I’ve only seen it in photos, of course. What a sight. And you can still see across to Arizona?” 

“Yes. We have the way blocked off, of course, so they can’t just push through.”

“I bet they’d try.”

“They would find our gun batteries unforgiving.”

Parson grinned. “That’s my girl,” he said. “I hoped I’d run into you here. They make it sound like you’re defending the place singlehandedly.”

“If that’s what it comes to.”

He started to cackle. “Oh, Cassandra!” 

;;;

Cassandra served under Parson eleven years ago. He was a good and humble man, honest, with a tough love for his troops. He had been a lieutenant in the gruesome siege of Navarro against the Enclave remnants, and later he served in the Brotherhood campaigns. As a ranger he had a deep understanding of the primordial danger of the wasteland, as well as the lost-modern tech of the bunkers, vaults, and tunnels. 

He had an interesting and unusual upbringing as the bastard son of a Canaanite runaway. His mother had gotten pregnant out of wedlock and fled west, surviving by her wits and her revolver, until she reached Bear territory. From her, Obadiah learned perseverance and self-reliance, and from his stepfather, he learned love for the military life and a respect for others. From the start, he had wanted the best for Cassandra and her career.

She was grateful for the lessons that he taught her, and from him she learned how to be a better officer and soldier. His bone-deep honesty sometimes left her on the verge of tears, a point to where few had ever brought her. She was disappointed to see him retire as a colonel, but that was his wish, and he lived true and good in Maxson with his family.

For a while they walk-and-talked around the casino floor, delving into side-rooms and wandering the carpeted expanse. It was terribly cold in the hotel; the air-conditioning was temperamental as ever and seemed to plunge now into the heart of winter. Parson saw through her disguised discomfort and let her wear his sportcoat over her cocktail dress; passing by her reflection in a mirror-glass art piece, she liked the look.

“Oh, I’m having a fine time. I miss Rebecca of course, but she wasn’t interested, not when she has her Ladies Society meetings that she’s hosting. Robert’s doing well, they’ve got him on the wasteland survival course for right now. Some friendly tribesmen are chasing them through the desert and such. Remember that?” 

“We had Arroyo band for ours.. and then Dead Horse trackers.”

“Robert says he’s doing fine, but they’ve got two vault dwellers with them who are having a time of it.. “

Moore nodded. “Understandable, but that’s one of the things the course was designed for them to overcome. They need to know how to take care of themselves out in the open.”

“I imagine after that, they’ll want to go back into the hole in the ground and never come out again.”

“I’ve found vault dwellers to be very passive, adverse to change.. “

“Unfortunately,” Parsons agreed. “You can drill it out of some of them, but for others.. it might take a generation. Their children turn out all right.”

“Now that I’m reminded. Hsu’s aide is a vault dweller. The intense-looking captain by his side.”

“I saw him earlier. One of the waiters got too close to James, and I thought the young captain was going to rip his arm off!” 

Moore smiled. “To be honest, I’m glad James has someone like that watching his back. You can’t be too careful here.”

Parsons flagged down a server to freshen up her drink. Himself he didn’t have anything stronger than a cream soda. “I wonder what’s happened to them with the Legion spreading out,” he mused. “The Dead Horses, I mean. Did you know my great-grandmother was a Dead Horse princess, on my mother’s side?”

“They’re further north than the Legion’s current holdings. They’re good at evading and no one can match them in those canyons.”

“Not by a long shot, anyway,” Parson agreed, nodding. “Now the best bet would be to get some other tribe to do the dirty work. The White Legs, for instance. My mother said they were nasty. Well, I guess it’s all up in the air right now anyway, with old Ed’s loss. A make or break moment.”

“If I had my way we’d chase them into Arizona and wipe them out. We’ve had a lot of help from the Arizona rangers who joined our ranks. We owe them that.” 

“I understand. The treaty. But we should wait and see how the dust settles.”

“That’s what Lee said.”

“Hell, if you rush in now, you risk them ganging together.” 

“There was dissent on Poseidon, too. Should we have waited for the Enclave to sort itself out?”

“Well. That’s a different set of circumstances. I see your point, but that was different. Unfortunate, the whole thing with those people.. “

Moore smirked into her drink. “Didn’t turn out so bad for all of them,” she said.

“Hmph. I know. I wouldn’t shake his hand. Browning, what a son of a bitch. Do you know he’s approached me about his son? Of all people he’s got his son a commission. The nerve of that man. I bet he thinks he’s a pure blood.”

“The tall one skulking around. I think I’ve seen him.”

“Rebecca would say something to the effect of, we don’t get to choose our parents.. but hot damn if that young man has no shame. None whatsoever. He goes around flaunting it, thinks he deserves better.”

“James had to suffer for his ancestry, and he’s never been anything but humble.” 

Parson nodded. “Poor James, he didn’t do anything wrong. His father either, none of them. I ran into the man back in Aradesh, you know—what an interesting old gentleman, the professor. Sharp as a tack. I can see how people would be upset when he changed his name back to their ancestor’s, but you know, I understand now why he made that choice.”

“So do I, I understand but I don’t agree. It was selfish. James had to live with that name. I remember how it was in the academy.. nobody would talk to him at first but Richards. Outcast for a different reason.”

“Well, and you.”

“And me.”

“I think it’s a point of honor for him now. That in our new world, everyone is welcome. You know, a bunch of us are trying to twist his arm into running someday.”

Moore held her drink close and looked across the casino floor in contemplation. “This isn’t the first time I’ve heard someone say that,” she admitted. “Maybe. I don’t know if James would like it. He’s a good leader and a good man… politics can be messy. Cruel. They change you.”

“Aaron’s holding up, isn’t he?”

“I hear it’s been the shock of his life. There’s a lot of problems you can solve the ranger way.. now he has to do it as a politician. It’s all sleazy and demeaning.”

“It’s always been that way, and it always will be. The trick is to try to be better.” Parson sighed. “I suppose it doesn’t help that they’d probably have a field day with the divorce.. try to find some moral failing there.”

Her blood went to ice. It seemed colder in here than ever. “The divorce?” 

Parson frowned, watching her face. “Oh, I thought.. “

“I knew they might be having problems.. “

“I don’t know I should have said that,” Parson replied. “That’s his and Evelyn’s business.. but I feel sorry for the girls.” 

;;;;

Picus spent the better part of the day in search of mischief. He wasn’t sure that the plot involved a bomb, but then, what else would achieve the grim finality that Vulpes hinted at? A bomb could clear out both the hated White Gloves and the NCR delegation all at once. 

Still, how would they smuggle it in, what with the tight security of the Strip? The machines would know, wouldn’t they.

Throughout the hotel he patrolled in relentless investigation. By this time he was checking potted plants, utility closets, and restrooms. Anything out of the ordinary. On the fourth floor he found a set of wet footprints on the carpet and he followed them until they disappeared down into a restricted area in the north wing. 

There he found a gorgeous blonde in a one-piece bathing suit, her hand reaching for a towel in the hotel linens closet.

He gawped at her. She blinked at him.

Then she said, in a friendly accent he was vaguely familiar with, “Aw, you startled me, sugar.. could you reach me a towel?”

He reached her a towel.

“Thanks, I’m all out in my room,” she said. Then she smiled. “You should try the pool!” 

Picus made an excuse and left.

Damn it.

He knew he ought to be looking near the kitchens, maybe. The White Gloves were said to eat human flesh in their rituals. 

A thought occurred to him: if the White Gloves were able to conceal their crimes from House, then perhaps that was how the frumentarii were able to smuggle explosives.

On the first floor by the back lounge, a section of carpet looked different than the rest: colors darker, fresher. He saw the pattern where it had been excised from the rug around it and replaced. With a thrill of excitement, of finally finding something to go on, Picus made certain that no one was watching him. Then under the pretext of kneeling to tie his bootlaces, Ron pried up the edges of the rug with his knife. Was there a secret panel? Was that the place the bomb was nested?

No.

He didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. Just a stain that had soaked into the floor beneath the carpet. Some drunken bodily incident must have ruined the carpet and they must have cut that section out for replacement.

Despite the heat of the day, he went out to check the hotel grounds. He hadn’t looked there yet. The heat engulfed him immediately, and he blinked at the white-hot glare of the sunlight. The Strip looked washed-out in the daylight, though he was not impressed with its nighttime neon either. 

Down by the one of the fountains, he ran into the messenger boy, who was watching an impromptu street show with acrobats. Picus gave him a couple caps to run Martina a message. He invited her to dinner after the celebrations were over.

Hopefully he would still be alive at that point, and then their work could continue.

Fifteen minutes later, the boy reappeared with a smirk and an outstretched hand. With a gleeful little light in his eye, the boy reported that Martina said she was busy and wouldn’t even hear his message. He said he could go run back there again for another couple of caps.

Picus sighed. He did not understand women.

He decided to reenter the hotel, and as the White Gloves searched him again on entry, a thought occurred to him: he could steal a set of their clothes and attempt to gain entry to the kitchens or basement.

How to obtain a set of their clothing?

He could always lure one away and kill him, one that looked his size. The White Gloves were going to die anyway, weren’t they?

Of course he could mistakenly alert them if he did this.

On his way back inside, a woman looped her arm around his and gave a laugh. “Aw, even if ya found it, then what, sugar?”

It was the woman from upstairs, but in the intervening time she had exchanged her wet bathing suit for a spectacular red cocktail dress. Her blonde hair was dried and curled, held up with pins and some ornamental bits, this towering updo of glossy perfection.

“Pardon?” he started.

“Ya ought to just have fun and enjoy the party,” she said. “’stead of lookin’ for that ol bomb.”

She gave him a peck on the cheek.

;;;;

“You’re just gonna drive yourself crazy.” Sister Perdita took a glass off a waitress’ tray, and when the woman was gone, she continued, “Anyhow, you should stop pokin’ around. Don’t think anybody’s noticed yet, but go on like that and they’re sure to. You don’t want them remembering that after it’s all happened.” 

“So you would have me do nothing?”

“Just relax.”

Picus growled. He had never operated with a female frumentarius—frumentaria?—besides Silva, the leader of their order. He was unsure of how he should proceed with her.

“Besides,” she said, “you don’t want to know what’s in that basement. These people aren’t right. Don’t tell Purpureo I told you, but other night he opens up the freezer and a whole bunch of feet fell out! Just feet! He’s trying to shove em back in there and they keep rollin out. Sick as hell, but you should of seen his face.”

Cannibals and the phrase “should of” were high on the list of things that irritated Curtis.

“I think the temperature changes have something to do with it, too, but I can’t tell what. Hour to hour, it seems like the air conditioner’s broken or it’s cold as winter. One to the other. You have to be meddling with it; the White Gloves would never allow for any discomfort in the Ultra-Luxe. Especially for a gathering like this.”

The frumentaria looked pleased with his line of suspicion, and she hugged herself up with a breathtaking and vivacious smile. “Tiberia was always telling me how smart you were, and I said back, well if he was so smart how come he had to push the grindstone at the mill for so long. And she said you were a back-talker, that was your problem. Course now you finally got it, you got your wolf’s head too.” 

“I wonder what your role in all this is,” he said. “You’re too conspicuous dressed like that, your hair like that. I would put you out here to watch people. You’ll watch them when it happens and stay behind afterward. Then you’ll report.”

“Course I will.”

“So I don’t think you actually have much to do with this part of the plan.”

“Oh, no, no. It’s all Fox’s idea. You know how he feels about cannibals, havin been a slave of the Flesh People ‘n all. No wonder he’s all messt up.”

Curtis frowned. 

“Your face gonna stick that way. Anyhow I heard you were all goin’ around messin with everything. You just quit it and let it all go the way it wants to go. Now, how many rangers yall got here. Is it just the ones Moore brung with her?”

“There are four I know of, Moore, her sergeant, and the younger two. Sandoza and Guzman. He’s an Arizona ranger. His kind fought us in Yuma.”

“Uh oh, well you better keep an eye on him. They hate us the most and they know our tricks.”

Picus sighed. “This exchange is not helpful.”

“If you aren’t gonna be fun,” Perdita said, “I’ma find someone who is. I’m not gonna let your bad mood bring me down! Not when I went through all this dang trouble to put on this dress. We got a birthday celebration comin’ up and I sure am excited.”

;;;;

He had worked for several months now in the other establishments on the Strip. On and off he washed dishes, waited tables, and ran errands that built credibility for this persona. He let his hair grow to a length he hadn’t worn since childhood, and as he straightened his tie in the mirror, he wondered if he knew his reflection.

His name was Gabriel on the Strip. He worked diligently without complaint. His impeccable manners and outstanding discretion were well appreciated by the Dissolute, through his awful world he passed like a ghost.

The White Gloves accepted his service on the strength of an impressive interview and a letter of recommendation. They required extra hands for special gatherings, and he was happy to oblige. When they asked why he wished to be a part of their casino, he smiled and told them that the Ultra-Luxe embodied the spirit of the Old World.

This was true: Vulpes Inculta felt that even though it had flashy lights and plush carpets, the place was a teeming cesspool that encouraged the worst in human behavior. The Strip was disgusting to him. The Old-Worlders were fat and soft, too weak and fearful to fight their own battles, afraid to fight like men. So their war was the last war, and all lands suffered.

Almost all life was extinguished. The cities were silent. Dust choked the skies. Vehicles rusted end to end on the highways. The land was dying. But the Old Gods remained with men, and the Queen of the Underworld heard their suffering. Proserpina begged her husband to relent, and the King of Hell closed his gates to the last of mankind.

It was the Old Gods who led man out of darkness—it was Lord Mars who protected them, and it was he who chose Lord Caesar.

Vulpes Inculta was relieved when the dominus passed the sentence on the White Glove Society. Their new world had no place for monsters like these cannibal idiots. They had their origins in scavengers and raiders who lay in wait like cowards, waiting to trap and seize prey rather than fight and hunt like warriors.

Their doom was fitting and just, poetic even, and he thanked the gods for this opportunity to end their disgusting reign.

When Moriarty stopped him in the hall to tell him the guest in 519 required assistance, he purred yes-sir. Right away sir. 

After he adjusted the establishment thermostat for the second time that day. You had to have these things just right. It wouldn’t be long now.

No one suspected him so far as he knew. But the woman colonel had held his eyes today; she had a hunter’s sense of something different. The intuition of a mountain lion. He prayed to Great Diana to give him the cunning to hide his tracks… or the strength to defeat the woman ranger.


	7. Chapter 7

At nightfall a marvelous fountain show dazzled the guests. Hsu leaned against a pillar and watched the jets of water entertain the well-dressed crowds before the Ultra-Luxe. The neon signs were in full brightness, and their garish colors were thrown back by the water. 

Rich came up with two drinks in his hands, passing one to James with a remark, “Save me from that big-haired woman. I’m not the sharpest guy, but I know when someone’s trying to make me their Vegas indiscretion.”

Hsu chuckled. “Which big-haired woman? That doesn’t narrow it down.”

“Gorgeous blond, kind of a Miss Norma Jean style. Aggressive as hell, kind of a country accent.” 

“I hope you let her down gentle.”

“Well after stalking me for like twenty minutes, she finally squeezed my arm and asked me if being a doctor made me appreciate the mysteries of the human body.” 

“And you said.. “

“I said it sure did, I just removed a five pound tumor from a woman and it had teeth and hair in it. Nature is amazing.” 

“And terrible.”

“Terrible and amazing.”

“So, she didn’t give you her room number, I take it.”

Rich shrugged. “I can’t imagine why.” The fountain jets boomed in the background. He raised his glass. “To missed connections.”

Hsu clinked their glasses together.

;;;;

The evening progressed with a variety of entertainments. In one of the showrooms a magician wowed the audience with sleight of hand, a strangely-attired gentleman with a purple suit and waxed mustaches. He transformed a lady’s handkerchief into a dove and back again, kissing her hand and throwing his cape over his shoulder.

Stately showgirls in striking plumage strutted through the casino floors, joining their sisters for an onstage spectacle. In one of the rooms a hypnotist worked his arts on a poor soul taken from the crowd. 

In the candlelit closeness of their lounge, a woman in a red dress poured her soul into the microphone. There was a sultry elegance to her slow movement and style, and even the bat of her eye seemed to travel the room. Her chestnut hair was done in a cascade of curls, and her eyes were a pale color that showed in the bridge lights.

Hsu loved this kind of music. 

His favorite singer had mastered this genre, but Esperanza was never so smooth, never so polished. When her eyes found you, your heart missed a beat, and there was a raw and dangerous power pent-up in that woman. A terrifying presence. If she sang here tonight, there would be no murmur of conversation from the crowd. Just unease and a sense of an audience captive to an idea: that something was about to happen.

He realized now that what he thought he wanted was romance. A delicate woman’s hand on his own. A dainty miss. A gentle wife. Evelyn had emerged from a vault with education and poise, and he supposed he had been blinded by her beauty and kindness. He was thankful that her vault had not suffered the propaganda of some of the others, who looked in his face and saw the Great War enemy. 

James courted her with all the appropriate affections, the bouquets and long walks, the mementos of his postings. Evelyn was in a hurry to be married, and he knew now that she must have thought she was getting old. She must have thought it was her duty.

He learned that afterward. 

Despite his best efforts and attention, Evelyn rarely seemed to enjoy their intimacy. She seemed embarrassed, uncomfortable, and eager for it only if it made her pregnant. Only too late did he realize the programming of her upbringing, and how it took so many years for her to know herself. He had grieved for their marriage, but they had given it their best. Now he understood.

It was in this peculiar mood that Cassandra found him. She looked striking in her black dress, and it showed off her figure well. The short sleeves displayed the fine tone of her muscular arms, and it was a delight to wonder what some of the others thought of her visible tattoo.

“You’re killing with that dress,” he told her.

“God, not yet, but with any fucking hope,” she said as she slid into his booth with a scowl. “Just so you know, Captain Browning is an impotent dipshit and I wouldn’t put him in charge of a trash can.”

James grinned. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but I have to. What did he do.”

“Tried to order me a drink and tell me his war stories.”

“What kind of drink, and what kind of story?”

“Pink and ridiculous.”

“Well, I won’t beg.. “

“He tried to impress me with a story about the dangerous raiders outside Hub, and you’d have thought he held them off singlehandedly.”

“Now, it could have changed in the last eight years, but the most dangerous outfit in Hub would be the Cassidy Caravan after a night of hard drinking. The trail boss has a wicked haymaker.” Hsu couldn’t contain his smile; he pressed his lips to the back of his fist, leaning his elbow on the table for just a moment. As though that might help. “Then what? Didn’t he see your tattoo?”

“He started to tell me about how military life suited him,” she went on, darkly. “How he was thinking of joining the rangers.”

Hsu finally let out a laugh. “Oh, no,” he gasped. “Don’t be angry, Cassandra.. you can’t pay for this kind of entertainment! Please tell me you told him.” 

Moore glowered for a moment longer, but then a beautiful and wicked transformation stole across her face. Like a cat that has realized the mouse is hers to torment. “I should, shouldn’t I,” she said.

“I’m sure it would do O’Brien proud,” he replied. “His shriveled little heart would jump for joy.”

“He’s here, by the way,” she murmured. “I saw him at Helios One. He had his little minions running errands.”

“Thought and Memory.”

“No, they had some ugly sounding names.”

“I had to look it up, but that’s what they translate to. Old Norse mythology.”

Moore shook her head. “He told me to tell you to watch out for the lotus eaters.”

“I don’t know what those are, but I’m confident I can take them on.”

“I suppose it’s some reference to some long-lost bullshit.” 

Hsu smiled. “It probably is. It takes me several months to a year to figure out some of the things that he’s said. They catch up to you.” His interest was piqued. O’Brien had been one of the first engineers in living memory to set foot on the dam, to go down into its tunnels and structures. “What did he want?” 

“He was running diagnostics on the power station. He says they’re only using a fraction of its power.”

“Can he make it work?”

“If anyone can, it’s him.”

As the song came to a close, a ripple of applause went through the crowd. James clapped also and hoped the singer stayed another song. A server came by with drinks.

“I heard a rumor today,” Moore said after a moment.

“I hope it’s a good one.” 

“You and Evelyn.” 

He wondered who had told her. “Then you’ve heard we’re getting a divorce.. “ he began carefully.

She nodded.

“It’s been a long time coming.” He felt as though he’d said these words a half dozen times. “I hoped we could make it work out. I thought if I could be closer to home, than we would have time to be together. That’s why I unfortunately accepted my last position. It didn’t improve. We tried, but it wasn’t meant to be.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He gauged her mood. There was a tightness in his chest he hoped the drink would help.

For a moment they only listened to the music, and then Cassandra said, “Don’t worry. I won’t press for details about you and Evelyn if you don’t want to talk about it. You’ve done nothing wrong—probably.”

“Evelyn’s been a saint.. “

“But she hasn’t been a person, has she?”

“No. No, I don’t think she ever knew what she really wanted in life.” He sighed. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Copy. My advice is to analyze, execute, and then refrain from any major life decisions afterward. Those two girls are the most important thing right now. Don’t let the poison spread to them. Let them grow and learn and discover who they want to be, not who they’re told or made to be.”

He nodded as he considered her words. There was a dull ache that reminded him again of how stupid and stubborn they had been when they were young. The things they could have had. “I’d been thinking about that.. but you put my fear into a way I understand. I don’t want them ending up like Evelyn’s people raised her to be. They deserve better. And who knows, by the time they’re grown, the war will be a bad memory. The Brotherhood defected or died out. Ed Sallow some footnote to history, a case study in the breakdown of society.. ”

Moore took a second round of drinks off a tray. When she handed him a glass, their fingers touch, and when her grip was free she patted his wrist. 

“I’m glad to see you out and about,” he remarked after awhile. 

“You act like I’m some hermit. I know how to have fun. This isn’t my kind of fun.”

Hsu said, “I think you’ll have fulfilled your promise to Lee if you go home anytime after this. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

“I’ve stuck it out this far. Besides, Guzman seems like he’s enjoying himself. It’s good for him after all he’s been through.”

“At the very least, you should have another drink with the hero captain of Hub City. You should tell him about that time you took down that Jackal chieftain with two arrows sticking out of your body.. “

;;;;

Cassandra walked through the casino floor with the straps of her heels in her hands. The shoes were not practical and her knee had started to ache. The plush carpet felt good beneath her toes. She passed beneath the glowing span of the art glass sculpture that dominated the lobby; she went by the greenery, the great fronds of palms, and the imported parrot whistled from its perch.

A voluptuous woman in emerald turned toward her as she passed; she smiled at Moore and gave a wink of inky black lashes. She was smoking a cigarette on a long stem holder.

The mirrored doors of the elevator closed behind her. Cassandra met the eyes of her reflection. She studied herself for outward signs of her turbulent mood, but she saw nothing different than the usual. She checked the small revolver she had hidden in her outfit. It didn’t pack the punch of her Ranger Sequoia, but then, what did. 

It was probably best that she returned to her room, but it happened that she passed a familiar valet in the corridor. When she stopped, he stopped.

Yes. That was the one.

A wordless agreement passed between them. She went into her room and he followed.

“May I be of some assistance,” he said.

“Take off your mask.”

He did so. The motion of his hands was precise. He was more attractive than she suspected. Beautiful, even.

“You said I should ask for anything I wanted,” she replied. “I’m going to drink tequila in the bath, so I want you to bring something for me. A good anejo.”

“Of course, I know just the kind.”

“It’s up to you whether you bring one glass or two.”

;;;;

The tequila was a fine gold aged in rum casks. The decanter sat by the discarded mask on the side table, and two wet shot glasses were left by half a lime.

There was something to be said about the energy and vigor of a young male lover. He was perhaps only in his mid-twenties, though his eyes held a certain age and cunning to them. He cut a fine figure in the black suit of the White Glove uniform, and as he tangled with her on the bedspread, a white-gloved hand crept up her thigh.

He squeezed as he went, and his grip fluid yet strong, a wave of pleasure kneaded into her muscles. She let out a sound when his hand found her bad knee, and he lifted his head for a better look to see if he hurt her.

She guided his hand in closer, and she gasped at the touch of fabric-covered fingers. Her eyes went half-lidded as the sensation grew more intimate. 

Cassandra slid her hands through his hair, and kissed his open mouth. Though it was he who touched her, he seemed almost overwhelmed by the experience himself. What a beautiful face, what long lashes. He had the solemn features of a gravestone angel, as though he had looked into some other world and come away with a mysterious hidden sadness. 

Something about the texture of the gloved fingers, the sharp striking, and then the teasing press, she came quick and hard and knew she’d feel raw tomorrow. She looked him in the eye as it happened, and she gave out a throaty growl; she watched an unnamable expression go across his face as he brought her through it. 

Her eyes shut tight, then, and when she opened them again to stop the motion of his hand, his expression almost looked afraid. It amused her to think of him suddenly so shy now.

She put an arm behind her to sit back, and he helped her wriggle out of her dress. The tension in his body seemed to break, and he just watched her in open amazement.

“Are you going to insist on being so well-dressed?” she said as she played her fingers across his belt. 

After a moment more, he reached back to turn off the lamp.


	8. Chapter 8

In the morning she noted, with amusement, that not only had he fallen asleep, he stayed asleep. The poor thing; he’d fought harder than most to keep up with her.

His mouth was slightly open on the pillow, and he was curled in on himself. When she reached out to stroke his body, she noticed the extensive scar tissue that raised from his back. She saw what looked like the gray and purple scarring from a whip, and dozens of indents from some kind of animal bites. When he rolled over to blink at her, she saw he only had one nipple. The other looked bitten off.

She thought she felt that last night. No wonder he had wished to turn off the lamp. 

He blinked sleepily at her, and then his eyes came into focus all at once. She thought of how a snake’s eye constricted in the light.

“It’s all right,” she said, with some maternal feeling. “I think you tuckered yourself out.” 

A smile of something like chagrin crossed his face. His head dropped back on the pillow. She brushed her hand slowly over his face; he had seemed to like that, to be stroked and petted.

He held her hand to his cheek, and then he rolled closer to touch her face in turn. He had a faraway and unfamiliar expression, something that showed mostly in the mouth, in the crease of his brow. He was too young for that.

“I saw your scars,” she told him. “Is that how you left your people?”

“That was a long time ago.”

“There’s no need to be shy. I’m sure you saw some of mine.” She brought his hand to touch the ugly jagged mark an arrowhead left.

“There were raiders,” he said, after awhile. “They killed most and ate the rest. I was too skinny. I thank God every day for the people who rescued me and brought me into civilization.”

She kissed him. His pulse beat quickly against her hand when she stroked his neck. Then he pulled away to get dressed. 

“I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed this,” he told her, in words that she remembered later. “Please accept my gratitude for a wonderful night. I don’t really.. do this, and I’ve got.. work to do.”

Cassandra smirked. “You’d better be on your way,” she told him

“Yes, ma’am.”

;;;;

Rich and Hsu played pool in a fantastic billiards room that was larger than some homes they had lived in.

Lamps of colored lamps shone on the pristine green velvet of their table. Rich shot stripes, and Hsu solids. Their conversation went light and easy, with Hsu operating on autopilot. He hadn’t slept well; his encounter with Cassandra plagued him. Part of him wanted to know who had told her. And why.

As he lined up his shot, he couldn’t help but scrutinize Richards. He’d been their oldest friend, an academy buddy, a fellow misfit in some ways. He had always approved of his and Cassandra’s relationship, such as it was, in their younger years out in the field. Don’t do this, Jim, he remembered Rich saying to him.

“Did you tell Cassandra about—“

“No, I didn’t.”

“How did you know what I was going to say?”

“There’s only one thing that could be said.” Rich leaned on the cue. “I knew you wouldn’t want me getting into it again, so I stayed out of it. She must have heard it from someone else.”  
“I tried to make it work.”

“I know you, did, James. You tried longer than you probably should have, but at least you didn’t trap her and have your woman on the side. Like some of our compatriots.”

Hsu heaved a sigh. “I’d rather not retread this ground. I just wanted to clear that up.”

“That’s the thing I hate about these little shindigs. All this mean gossip.” 

“You love gossip,” James replied as he sank his shot.

“No more than you, Jim, my good man. And I only like gossip about the people who deserve it.”  
“So how did it go with the Followers of the Apocalypse?”

Rich grimaced as he circled the table. “So I went among them waving the old olive branch. I should have saved myself the trip to the Old Mormon Fort.”

“That bad?”

“Their new director was as unwelcoming as she was serious. Which I found strange, given her bizarre haircut. Her head looked like a sideways turkey.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

Rich tested his shot. “Yes, it was—it was very distracting and I couldn’t pay attention very well.”

“I meant.. it’s unfortunate you couldn’t get along.”

The doctor shrugged. “I understand. I actually understand where they’re coming from. But it’s like they only want to see the worst aspects of the NCR. It’s frustrating. We should be working together out here.. like we did right after the war with the Legion. Hell, don’t you remember how they came out to help, and how it was like it didn’t even matter? Working side by side?” 

Hsu gave a rueful smile. “Truth be told,” he said, “I don’t remember very much about that. “

“Oh.” Rich seemed to snap into focus. “I guess you wouldn’t. Christ, we thought we’d lose you any minute.”

“It was like a dream.”

“Well, we had you on some strong stuff. Although it was terrifying at the time, you were actually very entertaining to talk to. You grabbed me by the ear once and tried to tell me about your pet cloud.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

A bright smattering of laughter took their attention; from the billiards sideroom they could see something happening in the larger area of the casino floor, some showgirls in black and white feathers strutting through with a businessman chasing after them. He thought he saw one of Cassandra’s men at a game table; while everyone gawked and chuckled, Sandoza kept his eyes on his cards.

“How did she take it?” Rich asked softly, then.

“Her advice was very practical. Analyze, execute, and make no major life decisions right afterward.  
”  
“Ugh. That’s so her.” Rich looked away as though to be stoic in the face of tremendous disappointment. 

“Besides,” James attempted to lighten the mood. “I’m sure she was charmed by a certain young and dashing Captain Browning.”

“Don’t get me started. No wonder the Followers call us hypocrites. Nothing like throwing a big birthday party for President Tandi in Vegas.. complete with a full cast of Arroyo dancers.. and then having to go and invite former Enclave bastards.”

“Now, say what you will about Browning Senior, but the young man would have been born a citizen.”

“Well he wasn’t born an officious prick, but that’s what he is, isn’t he? So how did it go with him and Moore? Did she divest him of his still-beating heart?”

“It looked like she wasn’t in the mood, so she went easy.”

Rich puffed out his cheeks in a huge breath. “Boy, that son of a gun doesn’t know lucky he is.”  
It took a moment for the colonel to recall a new detail. “Arroyo dancers?” he said. “They brought out Arroyo tribesmen here?”

“They’re mostly sticking to themselves, but I saw a few of them. You know. The little deathclaw tattoos, and that symbol that looks like a thirteen. I know, right?”

James tried to parse it. “Well,” he said, “I appreciate the attempt to recognize the Arroyos for their help in the earlier days of the Republic. Between you and me, something just wasn’t right about the way Chitsa died.. ”

“Funny how Chitsa the Chosen One happens to die young like that.. after she’s outlived her usefulness. Of course, there’s always going to be stories. There could have been nothing suspicious about it. After all, the wasteland’s a dangerous place.. and hell, she was known for running around with deathclaws.”

The Arroyo tribe had been founded by the vault dwellers of Vault 13, who had wandered out of the ground and into the wild. Their great hero Chitsa the Chosen One was said to have destroyed the evil Enclave of the United States of America, plunging their oil rig citadel into the sea and stopping their wicked plot to destroy life on the mainland. Complex stories emerged as to the manner of her death, some rumored conflict with Tandi, some misunderstood orders..

Their game continued for only a turn or two more before their final interruption. A White Glove member was walking in a broken, staggered kind of way, very un-White Glovelike, if James were to put a word to it. They were very fastidious and elegant people, but this one looked under some distress. By the time he pointed it out to Richards, the White Glove stumbled and vomited in one of the potted plants just outside the billiards room.

“Ooh, classy,” Rich said. “One second.” 

He went to check on the man. So as not to embarrass or discomfort, he approached the White Glove in a sympathetic manner. “Hello there, you’re not looking too well,” he said. “I’m a doctor.”

The valet looked stunned, gray in the face, and it was a moment before he pulled himself together to reply. “Must have been something I ate,” he said. “I don’t need help. Excuse me.” 

When he wiped his mouth there were traces of blood. 

;;;;

From the vantage point of the Ultra-Luxe rooftop, Cassandra Moore looked out across the Strip. She watched the sun set and the neon signs come alive. The streets were already filling with people. The sound pressed outward. Half a hundred conversations going on at once. An energetic man in a sombrero playing an accordion. Drums beating while a woman danced in tune with colored ribbons.

She went below. 

In her mental list of what to expect, she knew she had to get through this one night and she would be free to take her men and return. Like an animal the NCR delegation would gorge itself and stagger back to its den; let them do their business in New Cali, and let her look after their interests here.

As she returned to her room, she found a shot waiting on the vanity. How convenient. A little slice of lime on the edge, too.

Its burn was pleasant and left a smoky aftertaste. This must be a different type.

She was reaching for her hairbrush when the first spasm hit. Her flailing hand knocked her items off the vanity, and she doubled up against the ottoman, she saw the reflection of the White Glove valet in the mirror.

Her first instinct was to grab her weapon, but her body flooded with agony. He came up calmly behind her and took the shaking revolver from her grasp. She was losing the strength to pull the trigger.

“Brotherhood,” she snarled.

“No, ma’am,” he replied. “My name is Vulpes Inculta, of the Legion.”

“Caz.. cazador poison,” she gasped. Nothing else could hurt so badly.

Slipping the small revolver into his suit jacket, he said, “I’m afraid so. It will be quick.” 

Her throat burned out any chance to speak, and so she gave a vicious, wordless growl as she rallied her strength against him. He allowed her to strike at him, stopping her short of reaching for the revolver again, but her power faded. She pushed with less force and he was able to control her arms. He held her close in her decline.

“Don’t worry, ma’am, it will stop hurting in a moment,” he told her. “I want you to know that there is a part of me that is deeply regretful that I could not face you in combat.”

His white gloved fingers stroked through her hair, stroking and petting, as though to comfort her as her body gave out. He wiped some of the foam from her mouth with a handkerchief, and he stayed with her as she died.

When she grew still, he used his thumbs to gently open her mouth, placing beneath her tongue a golden solidus. It was the coin that would pay her passage across the rivers of the afterlife.


	9. Chapter 9

There was a curious sense of loss that followed him.

It occurred to him afterward that they would say he was afraid to fight a woman. That was not so. He did not let fear rule his power of judgment; he was quite rational when he made the decision to kill her with poison. She might kill him in a firefight, and in any case, he didn’t want to alert the others. 

After the intense and vigorous physicality of the previous night, he had come to realize it would be difficult to strangle her or break her neck. She had an immense strength and was clearly proficient in wrestling. 

It was a shame it had come to this. He quite admired her sense of purpose and unwavering persistence to carry out her goals. She was quite misguided, yet the former decanus in him realized that it was best to execute a bad idea than hesitate with a good one.

He hadn’t intended to sleep with her, not right away. Although it afforded an opportunity to become close to her, to let down her guard, it was dangerous for him as well. Dangerous and exhilarating. It was a shame there were fewer and fewer women of strength and vision in the Legion, the women like Silva, like Yucca Leaf.

In the elevator ride down, a guest asked him for fresh towels in room 733.

“Of course, sir,” he replied.

When the man exited the lobby, Vulpes Inculta inserted a key and pressed the number for the basement.

When the doors opened he saw the blood on the wall and on the floor, and he heard the intensifying sounds of human misery.

They were already dying when he arrived. Good; he was an efficient person and he preferred to be precise. Above them the noise of the casino floor would mask the events here below—with all the human conversation and the sounds of the gambling machines. In addition—perhaps in a gruesome twist of irony—the White Gloves had ensured to soundproof their chambers in order to drown out the screams of those human beings they ate in sacrifice.

“Oh, oh, it hurts, it’s moving,” one of the males was crying out, doubled up on the floor, “it’s biting, it’s BITING ME.” 

Another man had yanked his dress shirt out of his trousers, and he howled to watch the visible straining and moving of something beneath the skin.

Vulpes Inculta stepped over a crawling member of their inner circle, navigated around a second, and faced with a wide swath of blood that covered the corridor, he opted then to walk his shoes over the unresponsive body of an initial victim.

As the White Gloves died slowly around him, Vulpes Inculta went to the linens closet.

“It’s chewing its way out!” a woman shrieked. “It’s chewing!” Her voice took on a tone of shrill horror.

He felt nothing for these monsters.

“Ah, the wheel of Fortuna turns again,” Vulpes remarked. “Although I suppose here on the Strip one would say: payback’s a bitch, isn’t it?” 

The first eruption was a beautiful thing; the mandibles of the newborn ripped through flesh as the red wet carapace emerged from the screaming host.

“It was you! You did this!” Philippe sputtered as he came around the corner, timid at first, repulsed yet belligerent, completely aghast at what was happening in the seat of their power. He had a kitchen knife clutched tightly in his hand.

“A poetic and fitting end for your little play group of cannibals. Did you not recently eat human flesh from china plates, and drink blood from silver goblets? Not so elegant now that the tables have been turned. Show us that knife, Philippe.”

When the chef lunged, Vulpes threw a towel over his face in one motion and stole his knife in the second. Philippe had almost pulled the covering off when the frumentarius pinned the towel to his face with a knife to the eye socket.

The towel filled up with red as Philippe’s body hit the floor.

Vulpes took a second towel to help with the momentous thing that was happening among the bodies throughout the basement. It was clawing, digging, squirming, shrieking, the violent emergence of the creatures that had grown in them. 

It was the miracle of life.

;;;

Even before you entered the auditorium, you felt the palpable excitement in your final steps to the doors. A valet stood at either door, and Picus shuddered beneath the knowing gaze of the evil guardians.

There was a low sound of stringed instruments and the house lights were on low. One or two White Gloves acted as ushers, and Picus wondered if they were even White Gloves anymore. They seemed to watch and look, to know and wait.

There was a neck tattoo on one of them that he recognized as a glyph-animal of the eastern raiders. His true name might have something to do with a kind of two-headed snake.

Curtis sweated and his dress uniform itched. He felt the weight of his hidden weapon and he wondered yet again if anyone noticed it. He touched it again in a surreptitious gesture that looked like he was adjusting the material.

Hsu and Richards were engaged in their own conversation; the man seemed like a brother to the colonel, an old friend from the Academy. Their ranks sorted out differently with one of them in a combat field and the other medical. There was no competition in their interaction.

It was good the doctor was close by. He would be needed.

;;;

In a room on the first floor, a radio played at its highest volume; a white gloved hand had turned the dial high to hide the noise. The gloves were red by the time the Legionaries were finished. A cheery tune played throughout the suite as the four men stepped over the knifed bodies of the Arroyo acrobats. They gave up their valet uniforms for the tribal costumes the entertainers were supposed to wear. The last Arroyo lay dying between a loveseat and a tray table; his mouth worked soundlessly before he fell with a great red streak down the wall.

In a room on the third floor, a woman gasped, arched off the floor, and spat a coin from her mouth. 

;;;

Conversation buzzed in the amphitheater. One man had a raucous laugh that outstripped all others, and friend and colleagues met and talked between the tables. The low house lights glittered in the jewelry of wives and mistresses. Blonde Perdita had befriended Ambassador Crocker, and she laughed at some remark he made.

Curtis began to feel ill. It was a bit warm in here. Some of the guests were fanning themselves. 

The lights began to flicker, and a ripple of excitement went through the crowd. It was about to begin.

;;;

Cassandra crawled to arm’s reach of her first aid kit. Her face fell to the carpet. Her left hand reached and failed to grasp the strap of her bag. She tried again, but her wrist barked the chair leg. Her third attempt looped her arm in the strap, and she pulled. 

The bag’s weight kept it on the chair.

;;;;

“Think we should check on the colonel?” Sandoza asked. “It’s about to start.”

Flaherty scanned the room from their table, their back to the wall. “I don’t know she really wanted to see this,” he said. “If she wants to show up, she will.” 

Gomez said nothing. His eyes were riveted on the man with the neck tattoo.

;;;

The first aid bag fell from the chair. 

Cassandra lifted her face from the carpet, where pink drool left an unpleasant stain. Propped on an elbow, she ripped through the contents of the bag. Her head drooped again, and she coughed slime. 

The medical tin rattled on the floor.

Then her hand touched the injector.

Yes.

Her fingers touched her chest. Yes, there.

Pulling in all her strength, she jammed the needle in.

Her eyes flew open.

;;;

Hsu leaned in to whisper to him. “Stop playing with your weapon. You’ll only draw more attention to it.”

Curtis realized two things: he had been fidgeting with his concealed pistol, and the colonel knew. He had probably known the entire time. 

Perhaps Hsu was also carrying.

The crowd gasped as the amphitheatre fell to near darkness. From somewhere he couldn’t see, a hidden musician played a haunting melody on a bone flute. 

There wasn’t a sound otherwise. Outside of the banal and vicious reality of what had probably happened to Chitsa the Chosen One, war-leader of her tribe, the majority in the NCR seemed to want to believe in the larger myth of their cooperation. 

As the last notes fell away, a drumbeat began. It came as a slow knock at first, and then another hand-drum joined it. In the mood of growing excitement, painted tribesmen revealed themselves in high-pitched cries and flashy acrobatics. The bridge lights came on in a strobe of color.

Picus banished his fear. A great calm appeared in the wake of acceptance. This is where it would happen.

In twirling serpentine motion, a great construct made of colored paper, balsa, and other ornaments came dancing out— it was a huge mock-up of a silver dragon, its huge eyes red. 

Hsu remarked to him, “Look, it’s supposed to be the albino deathclaw that the Spirit of the Wasteland sent to guard Chitsa.” 

The deathclaw construct wended its way through the tables, carried by two men whose upper bodies could not be seen. A woman shrieked with delight when it came close.

;;;;

Cassandra made her way to the elevator in a wide stagger. There was no time to change and she went barefoot. She experienced no pain whatsoever as the drug flooded her entire body, but her heart felt like it might explode. 

On the way she passed a moaning White Glove doubled over with stomach cramps. There was nothing she could do for him. She had to make it downstairs in time.

;;;;

At last the master of ceremonies appeared. Waylaid by his new blonde friend, laughing as she tweaked his nose, Ambassador Crocker reacted with delayed surprise to see the White Glove take the stage. His face showed confusion: wait, wasn’t he supposed to make some opening remarks?

Curtis saw Vulpes Inculta smile as he walked the microphone stand out to the edge of the small stage. He always remembered the man to be taller than he actually was. Or older. This was it, then. 

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he purred. 

The deathclaw construct still moved slowly within the crowd. 

Curtis spotted the man with the neck tattoo; he had changed out of his valet uniform and into a tribal costume at some point. He stood with one of the other dancers off to the side, leaning his weight on an authentic Arroyo spear.

The master of ceremonies swept the crowd with a look. His smile was friendly and confident; if you did not know him at all, you might assume he was a wonderful and polite young man, a favorite of church ladies. “I know that you are as anxious as I for the events of the night to begin, so therefore, I will keep my remarks short.”

There was a low buzz of conversation, or perhaps some kind of sound from the microphone. Curtis thought it sounded familiar.

“We are gathered here this evening in honor of a special lady. A woman for the ages. She will live forever. It was out of her great mercy and zest for life that she led us out of the fires of the apocalypse. I speak now of holy Artemis, the hunter, and I offer these lives in her name.”

So smooth and keen was the voice of Vulpes Inculta that the crowd did not immediately parse what he had just said. 

Then the dancers shed the paper deathclaw float and all beheld the terrible thing that was hidden beneath.

Each wasp-thing was the size of an alleycat, their wingspan longer than the reach of a man’s arm. Beautiful wings, brilliant orange. The cazadores moved slowly, sleepily, a tangle of blue-black bodies.

And then they came alive in full buzz.

And then the frumentarii began to butcher the NCR with knife and spear.

;;;;

Multiple shots rang out in the chaos that followed. Along with the tribal weapons they used in the performance, more Legionaries revealed themselves in the guise of White Glove servants. Holdout pistols appeared and some the NCR members also carried. Colonel Hsu was one of them.

So was Richards. 

The young ranger Guzman was the first to kill one of their attackers; the man with the neck tattoo had just thrown his spear when half his head fell away from an expert shot. His eyes were fierce, but his face was collected, his motions careful and controlled. 

The cazadores were stirring up, buzzing, flying, a maelstrom of bright orange wings. Their first sting tore through the dinner jacket of a factory owner from Aradesh City, and his resulting scream might well be heard from there.

It happened very quickly. 

Curtis knew he had to move the colonel to safety, but Hsu insisted on helping the others. A waste of time! The cazadores were going to kill them all, even if the frumentarii didn’t. He joined Richards in taking shots at a Legionary that had popped up with pistol in hand.

Purpureo threw a spear through one of the cattle barons. His large wife let out a howl. Some of the other women were screaming—Perdita the loudest—and one of the mistresses had a rapidly swelling face of gruesome disfigurement.

A very tall man in captain’s rank was cowering beneath a table.

Unable to take the time to reload, Curtis yanked a throwing spear out of a dead businessman’s body. 

Hsu grabbed the edges of a tablecloth and it was much like the performance of parlor tricks from that magician earlier; he yanked the tablecloth out from under the glasses, and while Curtis wondered what in the hell he was doing, the colonel threw it over a mess of cazadores that were headed their way. They tangled up in the fabric, their bodies big as a cat.

“Now,” the colonel said. It was the opening they needed to push the survivors out. There was a hail of gunfire somewhere else in the casino.

It was then that the auditorium doors blew open, two White Glove ushers shot dead just outside. The woman who appeared there was not the gorgeous redhead in a knockout cocktail dress that one would normally hope to see in Vegas, but she was the best sight in a bad situation.

Her face was gray, her eyes wild, foam still on her lip, and a bloody puncture was leaking red into the low cut of her dress. She put the last fresh round in her Ranger Sequoia and lifted it. 

In a hoarse ugly voice of fury she snarled, “I spent twenty years working up an immunity,” and the Ranger Sequoia kicked as she fired shots at a very startled Vulpes Inculta.

;;;;

The firefight continued through the hotel. Glass sculptures shattered. Blood soaked deep in the lush carpets. Once the hotel guests were taken out into safety, Curtis swore when he saw Hsu, Moore, and the rangers take the battle back to the frumentarii. They should just get out now! Damn it!

The remnants of the White Glove Society were encountered throughout the casino floor; some were slaughtered by weapon, and some were curled up clutching their bodies without a mark on them. Some were still alive, just barely, wracked with spasms of horrible agony.

Some of the dealers realized now the cause was lost; some were making off with the money.

Curtis body-slammed a frumentarius through the lobby-floor art-glass sculpture. Razor-sharp fragments ripped and shredded him. He fought with a fanatical gleam in his eye, realizing his last moments were upon him, but it took only a half-minute more for his body to fail him from blood loss.

The cazadores were intensifying. There were more than those in the paper construct in the performance. Vulpes Inculta must have smuggled them in to grow them in the hotel somewhere. Now they were everywhere.

It ended on the arrival of the securitrons. When they opened fire and chips of wood and chunks of plaster went flying. Gambling machines were punctured and one lever-pulled game suddenly let out a pouring of chips.

;;;;

The securitrons rolled on in hunt for the Legion. A man’s voice yelled out, “Cassandra—come back!” and a woman snarled, “I’m not afraid of them!” 

A squad of machines remained.

The Chairmen showed up with submachine guns and a sense of style.

Benny Gecko stood with his hands in his pockets. His personal bodyguard was a gorgeous woman of African descent, the entertainer Glitter Doll, a statuesque showgirl with a drum-fed weapon.

“Hell of a party,” Benny said.


	10. Chapter 10

Makeshift hospital tents sprung up on the grounds of the Tops Casino. The Chairmen made sure that it looked like they were taking care of their people. Armed guards stood watch in tuxedos. Beautiful women came out to offer refreshments. One of the gorgeous fountains became a source of water for the medical efforts.

One of the entertainers brought his tame molerat over to cheer the miserable patients, but one of the Chairmen sent him packing.

Inside one of the tents, two doctors conducted an autopsy while a green-faced intern took notes.

“Ah, Pepsis Formosa,” said the blond doctor, Arcade Gannon from the Old Mormon Fort. “The tarantula hawk. It is said to have the most excruciating sting of any insect on Earth. The normal version paralyzes spiders and brings them back to her nest, where the unfortunate spider lives for weeks as a living nursery for embedded wasp larva. That’s just the normal run-of-the-mill variety. But the upgraded, mutated, extra-special numero dos?”

Doctor Richards motioned to the intern for an instrument, but the young man abruptly left the tent. “Rumor has it the Enclave engineered them as a living weapon. Get a whole bunch of those things and release them in a bunker. Not a fun day for the vault dwellers.”

“Chances are, if it’s shitty, terrible, and mean-spirited, the Enclave was behind it.”

Richards returned with a larger pair of forceps. “I’ve been thinking about how they probably pulled it off,” he said. “They probably smuggled in the eggs. Strip security would never figure it out. He must have slipped the eggs to them through their cannibal rituals. Of course he’d lose some of the spawn if they chewed them up real good.. stomach acid.. that sort of thing, but.. “

“Well, that doesn’t explain all of the fully-grown adults. There’s a hell of a lot of bugs in that casino right now.”

Rich shrugged. “True. He must have brought in some of the adults in some kind of sleep stage. Smuggling them in. Who would check for that.” Then he saw it. “I think he must have controlled their sleep cycle through the thermostat.”

“The thermostat?”

“We kept noticing the air conditioner on full blast, and then nothing at all. The changing temperatures seemed out of place for such a ritzy joint. It must have had some kind of effect on them.”

Gannon attempted to separate the specimens from the host. “Look at the advanced mouthparts on this one. Do you know they actually drink nectar? It’s just in the gestation phase inside the host that they eat their way out.. “

“Listen.. Arcade. I was wondering if you’d like to get a drink.. “

“In case you didn’t realize,” the Follower replied, “I’m doing everything under my power to repel you.”

“Oh and it’s admirable. This is very disgusti—oh God, look at them all. At least they’re mostly dead. There’s so many in him!—look, all I’m saying is that we appreciate the help from the Followers of the Apocalypse, and it’s a good opportunity to work together.. ”

Arcade Gannon shook his head. “Believe me, I didn’t volunteer. I was minding my own business when Julie Farkas decided to ruin my day. You think I want to delve into all the details when some maniac runs around chanting in Latin, making people man-pregnant?” 

;;;

Running in her high heels, and quite proficient at it, Martina Groesbeck found Curtis and threw her arms around him. “Oh, Ron. I heard you were so brave.”

He shrugged and attempted to extricate himself from her attentions. He was unused to anyone trying to tend to his wounds. Even gentle, sad-eyed Siri had learned to give him bandages or salve and let him take care of himself.

“Oh—right, not here,” she said, “not with everyone coming out to look.” She peered at him through her lashes. “I’m so sorry, are you all right?” 

“Had worse. I think it’s over now.”

“Who knew they could do such a thing?”

“Listen.. Martina.” His chest felt tight. “Could we.. start over? I’m not good at this.”

Even unkempt, hurried, and a little out of breath, Martina looked gorgeous and welcoming in the early hours of the morning. It was dark yet and the neon light shone on her. “Ron,” she said, “Did you even get to eat your dinner?”

;;;;

It took the better part of the day to return to their encampment. They lost brother Caius, who had appeared fine except for that blunt wound to the head. He had been talking to them one moment, and in the next, he lay facedown with sand in his eyes. It was his time to go.

Vulpes anticipated his imminent death. He had lost a quantity of blood. He no longer experienced pain and the desert seemed a cold place to him. His legs seemed not to belong to him. The woman ranger’s aim was true.

It required his entire focus and strength to stagger back through the washes and scrub that led to the black sand and soil of Fortification Hill. He refused to allow Perdita or Purpureo to steady him.

He fell only once trying to walk through the gates. That was a small blessing.

At last he came to the red tent encampment on the summit, where Lord Caesar held his audience. The young frumentarius was relieved not to see Lady Silva in attendance, the ruthless leader of their order. He already knew the outcome of this meeting; there was no need to make it any worse.

“Great Caesar, Son of Mars, Father of our people, Vulpes Inculta submits himself to your judgment.” 

“I’ve been hearing about the whole thing on the radio.” Caesar nodded. 

“The White Gloves are utterly destroyed, and their base of power will not be inhabited again. The Strip is in chaos.”

Lord Caesar smiled a thin tight smile. In a clipped tone he asked: “Why is it Colonel Moore survived?”

“There may be more at work here, sire.”

“What does that mean?”

“I laced her drink with cazador venom. It is a paralytic agent and its effect is excruciating. Immediate. Lethal.”

“Yet somehow she managed to take out some of you? And shoot you? Look at you, you’re bleeding through your bandages.”

“Yes, dominus. That is my one failure. Please accept my gravest apology and permit me to kill myself for having failed you.”

Caesar growled an irritated sound. He waved his gauntleted hand in dismissal. “No—not yet. Maybe. I’m amazed that after all your preparation, you couldn’t manage to kill that woman.”

Visibly anxious, Lucius the chief praetorian broke in, “My lord, the original aim was to destroy the White Glove Society for having offended you. Are they not completely destroyed? Does the Strip not live in fear of your power?”

“He failed to kill the commander of the dam. A woman!”

Very quietly, Vulpes Inculta spoke: “It is said that in times of great tribulation, the gods choose their champions on earth. Perhaps the woman colonel was sent to test us.”

Caesar blinked. “What?”

“At the moment I invoked the Great Huntress, it was Cassandra Moore who returned from the dead? Perhaps by slaying her in battle we will prove our rightful claim on the Mojave. In the previous attempt it was the arrogance and disbelief of the Burned Man that led us to failure.” 

Lucius made a motion of his head in trying to catch Fox’s eyes. His own expression was quiet, intense: stop talking! What are you doing?

Yet now Caesar appeared to consider. “Go on.”

“I have reprimanded myself for not killing her when I had the chance,” Vulpes continued. “I could have strangled her. I could have cut her throat after we slept together. I could have shot her. Yet now I have come to realize that she would have lived also. That it was not her destiny.”

“Wait. You had sex with her?”

Vulpes Inculta blinked slowly, as if lost in thought. “Yet-- I have carnal knowledge of her.”

Caesar said nothing. The angle of his slouch increased. He turned and glanced at Lucius, who stood uncomfortably at the right of his throne.

Then Caesar laughed. The entire mood took a sharp pivot. “You fucked her!” 

“Yes.”

“You fucked her and now they all know!” 

The face of Vulpes Inculta was grayed out, very slack. “I suppose it is possible, my lord,” he demurred. 

“I was going to get angry,” Caesar told him, “but this turned out better than I thought. You weird, creepy little bastard. Let her live then. The so-called commander of the dam! What will the general say. Lucius, go get him cleaned him.” 

;;;

Discussion at the embassy detained them. Military police joined the securitrons and the Chairmen in keeping order on the Strip. When Hsu and Curtis returned to McCarran, they found Major Dhatri and a contingent of sharpshooters waiting to greet them. Jane Betsy looked fierce.

Exchanging salutes, the First Recon commander said, “General’s in there waiting for you.”

In the terminal they found a number of afflicted NCR civilians, those who were well enough to have been moved. Among them was Hector Browning, the old man sitting with a sour grimace on his face—and an enormous swelling from the corner of his mouth to his ear, with two gooey punctures above his jowl.

O’Brien showed up suddenly; you would have thought there would be a whiff of brimstone. “I’m so sorry, Hector, I’ve just heard the news.” 

“Dho awade, o’brah.” 

“The news, of course, where your son cut his finger on a piece of class while hiding under a table, and then how he hit his head running away.” The ancient engineer’s voice cut sharp and deep. He wasn’t wearing his black patch and if you know beforehand, you’d never figure out which one was the glass eye right away. Both were so blue and cold. “A veritable chip off the old block.”

Where it wasn’t that color to begin with, Browning’s face took on a violent shade of red. “Fuff off!” he growled. “Dou dweren’d gdere! How dar dou deak do me!” 

“I’m sorry, Hector, but you’re going to have to enunciate.” O’Brien shrugged, and then he brought up his hook hand. “Do you want me to pop that for you?”

“Mister O’Brien,” Hsu called as he and Curtis came in closer on their way through the terminal.

O’Brien relented, if momentarily. There was an absolute menace in his face that was slow to fall away. He smiled thinly. He was very tall and there was something about him that made it feel like he were talking down to you like a child, even if he observed the utmost politeness. 

“Colonel,” he intoned as he walked with them. “I heard about your toga party. It’s good you both went after all.” 

“I’m just glad we were able to stop the massacre. Many more people could have been injured.”

“Indeed. I suppose it’s House’s problem now. His house, his rules. I won’t keep you when the good general is waiting in your office, but I’ll send you my findings in regard to Helios One.”

“Which are, in short?” 

“Which are, in short, we are in need of someone with a degree in theoretical physics. A team of experts.”

“Well, we’ll have to get a team of experts.”

“And there’s the rub. Good day, colonel.”

“We’ll catch up, O’Brien—I think I’ve finally figured something out.”

He steeled himself to approach the door of his own office. Curtis paused him to wipe something off his rank insignia, and then nodded tersely.

There were voices from within, and as Hsu opened his own door, he saw Senator Bert Borkowski waving his bandaged hands wildly as he recounted the story. “And then Cassandra came out with her Ranger Sequoia and knocked that son of a bitch right off his feet! You should have seen his face!” 

General Lee Oliver, standing there in all his rank and ribbons and ranger glory, was standing there with a cigar clamped in his teeth. “That’s my girl,” he said on a bark of a laugh. “She’s a wild one.”

“She said, ‘I’ve spent the last twenty years working up an immunity to cazador poison!’” 

Hsu and Curtis exchanged a look.

“Gentlemen,” Hsu said,

“James, get in here. What in the hell. Aaron is going to have me standing there front and center. What am I supposed to say.” 

Surprisingly, Curtis was the first to speak. Completely out of turn he blushed and blurted out, “This is House’s problem,” he said. “Respectfully, sir, you’re looking at it all wrong. He’s always boasted about control of the Strip, all his machines, all his men. The White Gloves were the real target, and the delegation was an afterthought. We did our best.”

“Captain Curtis,” Hsu said. “Please. Although what you say isn’t incorrect. The Legion launched an attack in the heart of the Strip. The White Glove Society are all killed, and we’ve lost some people in the delegation. We’ve raised our own security, and we’re dealing with House in this matter.”

“This is the first time the Legion has been able to strike us in our own territory,” Lee said. His eyes were judging Curtis. 

“They’ve done it before,” Hsu replied, “but not to us. That’s how they took Yuma and killed the desert rangers. A centurion took his own squad and managed to infiltrate.” After a pause, he added, “We did the best we could with what we had.” 

Lee squinted very sharply, and in the intervening time of his silence, Hsu realized with irritation that the man had helped himself to the cigar stash in this office. “I know that, James,” he said, and his mood seemed to lighten. “If it weren’t for you and Cassandra, we would have probably lost more, maybe all.” 

“Captain Curtis was right there in it all. He killed three of them. Without Ron’s help I don’t know where it would have gone.”

The general nodded slowly, and then he changed the cigar from one hand to the other in order to put out a paw for Curtis to shake. “You did good, son. You the vault dweller one?” 

Ron appeared surprised at this unexpected honor, and it took him a second to reach out in thanks. “Yes sir,” he said. “Thank you, sir.”

;;;

A full investigation consumed the weeks that followed. Robert House directed his agents to cooperate in the matter, and the machines tightened their scrutiny. 

Experts were called in to study what became of the White Gloves. A great quantity of human skeletons of all ages were discovered in the hidden basement rooms of the casino. Anyone attempting to gain entry of the Ultra-Luxe had to do so with heavy machine guard and in a protective suit.

The cazadores were impossible for humans to remove from the abandoned casino. Securitrons had to go room by room to kill them; more flew away and the painstaking effort began to exterminate them on the Strip. Tourism suffered. Where there had been three, there now were two: the Chairmen and the Omertas sized each other up, an unspoken tension between the contenders that remained.

The Ultra-Luxe stood empty once more, as it did in the long years after the apocalypse.


End file.
